Topsy Turvy Week and Bitching about the Subway

Oy vey, finishing out one job, starting at the new one.

But, ahhhh, the bliss of not having to awaken at 5 o'clock in order to arrive at work at 8:45.

Downside: riding the subway with creeps, cretins, and dumbasses at rush hour.

Why is it the skinny white kids (and by kids, I mean those hipster-wannabe 20-somthings in artful 2nd-hand clothing and too many tattoos) who always take up more than their fair fucking share of space on the subway? I mean, the chicks either spread their shit over two seats, or they sit on one of the bench seats pretending they don't realize they're taking up 1-1/2 seats. I've made it my personal crusade that no matter how many other empty seats there are on that car, I will walk over and point my substantial ass directly at girlie's Vera Bradley bag. Do you have one ass? Then you get one seat. You WILL move, bitch.

And the guys? What the F-in F do they have in those backpacks? They wave them around like camel humps without regard for anyone standing near them, and refuse to remove them and put them between their feet during rush hour. Your civic duty is to lean against them as if they are a wall.

Someone once asked me, "What's a 9/12 New Yorker?" Well, these kids certainly fit part of the description. All I would need to hear one of them say is, "My parents help me out," to know they are real NineTwelvers. Oh, and by the way, the English translation of "My parents help me out," is "My parents send me a check every month that covers my rent, utilities, and incidentals. My paycheck is my going-out money."

This heat is definitely taking a toll on my temperament today.

Fershure.