September 6th, 2001

JOY

My Breasts are Weapons of Guerilla Justice

Somehow, the Blue line has become the redheaded stepchild of the DC Metro system. In the morning it’s packed like a cattle car. In the evening, it’s packed like a cattle car. Since it mostly shares its track with the Orange line, the line that follows the ever-congested Rte. 66, someone’s logic has mandated that for every two six-car Orange trains, there will be one four-car Blue train. Sure, the Orange is a popular line, but come on. Especially with all of the encouragement there has been to take the metro up 395 (which means taking the Blue) in light of the Springfield construction hoo-ha, something has got to be done about the Blue. If only they let me run the place. Things would be running perfectly then.

In reality, I’m one of the cattle. As an aside, let me say that there is no applecart I will sooner upset than that of someone who thinks they can sit with their bag/leg/fatass taking up the seat next to them during rush hour. I have noticed a glare or two from the other inconvenienced passengers, but no one seems to make them move. If you’re not part of the solution, you’re part of the problem, you know? The longer we let these a-holes think that they can get away with this, the longer they will. So I have made it my personal agenda to sit next to these people even if there are other seats available. Shit like this ain’t gonna fly on my metro, if you catch my drift.

If it’s not already apparent, I encountered one of these bastards today. The stop for the National Airport is two before I get on, so sometimes travelers and tourists are on the train with the rest of the commuters. There was a guy taking up the whole Freak Seat with his corpulent frame and his two large pieces of luggage (he is probably the same asswipe who wants to put both of those two large pieces of luggage in the carry-on on the plane). When I got on, I simply noticed that there wasn’t a second head next to him and thought there was a free seat. I neared and saw the suitcase on the seat next to him, and prepared to ask which side he would like to sit on, but then saw that he had placed the second suitcase on the floor at the feet of the other seat. At first, I thought I was licked. I was prepared to melt back into the crowd and accept defeat. Suddenly, genius struck.

I stood next to him, with my hand on the bar behind his head. My purse was practically in his lap. My tits were inches from his ear. I saw my breath moving his plugged hair ever so slightly. I figure, if he’s taking up the personal space of two people, he can share some of it with me. He had a chance to do it the easy way. As I towered over this guy, I stared at him, sizing him up: noticing his cheap suit, cheaper tie (adorned with little pictures of CDs), Delta SkyMiles tags on his luggage, messy shave job and his terrible, terrible fake hair. All the while planning things to say to him if he should ask me to move – the train got less and less crowded as the ride wore on, seats even opened up, but I still stood there, tits forcing him to point his eyes at nothing above the awfully dry hands folded in his lap. “Fancy businessman like you can’t afford a cab?” “Did you spend too much on that hair?” “Didn’t save enough with your SkyMiles?” He never asked, but I never budged.

I think some of the other passengers noticed. I saw two of them snickering, so hopefully they will not only remember this, but share it with others. But I’m confident that from now on, Carry-On Guy will think of my tits next time he tries to bring so much luggage on the metro. Whether or not that will dissuade him from doing it is up in the air.
JOY

Things that go bump in the night...

As I mentioned last night, as I was shutting off my scary game, I heard the rumbling noises of someone upstairs moving around furniture. But it was going on for too long and was obviously coming from someplace outside. Then it sounded like construction. I know they don't do construciton at 11:00 at night. Then it sounded like thunder, but it was really long and drawn out and there was no rain.

I asked some of my fellow Arlington-residing co-workers this morning if they too heard the strange thunder. They had. We all agreed on how strange it was.

Then I read this.

I'm not usually one to say anything about whether or not the president is a complete idiot, but this one just plain takes the cake.

What gets me even more is that a quick search on Yahoo news doesn't bring up any of the negative aspects of this. They just talk about the party.
  • Current Mood
    shocked shocked
JOY

Streetsigns on the walls? Now I've seen everything!

I’ve talked about how bothersome it is when people ruin your stories by playing stupid: pretending they don’t know what you’re talking about and the like, but I have to say that Playing Stupid’s maybe even more annoying half-sister has got to be Detail Over-Focus.

A prime example of DOF was overheard not long ago on the train. Young man was talking to young woman about how he and his wife went out to dinner recently. He explained that they went to “one of those American-food chain-type places” down Rte. 1, and carries on with his story. The girl interrupts, “Was it a Ruby Tuesdays?” He says “yeah, a place like that. Anyway, so we were going to dinner…” and she interrupts again, “Was it a TGIFriday’s?” he repeats, “yeah, one of those places.” “Houlihans?” “Something like that.” “Benningans?”

It just went on like this. Lucky for her she was his friend and not mine because she would have gotten a mouthful of meathook. Does it really matter exactly what restaurant they were in? He said it was “an American-food chain-type place”. We all know exactly what that is: there’s a bunch of shit on the walls and they have college students serving burgers and beer. Unless you work at it, it doesn’t really matter which one it is.

One of my lifelong friends had the DOF problem. She would ask me what time it was, and I would say, “about five after one” and she would ask me again what time it was. Unless I said something like “one-o-six” she would be dissatisfied. Even if it was a Saturday afternoon and we hadn’t moved in hours. I guess I can be tolerant of the ones I love.