Hell in a Handbasket
by DMtShooter of Five Tool Tool
OK, young ‘uns, it’s time for a Curmudgeon Check. That’s where I ask you, the theoretical blog-reading public, whether or not I’m becoming an irredeemable bitter old man, or if, in fact, the world *is* going to hell in a handbasket. Let’s play!
The train I ride is undergoing trackwork, which means that one out of four tracks is closed for repairs. During this time, there are temporary gates set up over the out of service track. When a train pulls in, it has to line up with the gates perfectly, and have an attendant open the door from the outside, once they’ve verified that it’s safe.
Yesterday, on the second day of this new arrangement, there was something wrong at the station before mine. I suspect that there weren’t enough attendants to open the doors. So only one door opened, and hundreds of people had to walk through multiple train compartments to exit.
Which is when the charming person behind me, rather than endure a couple of minutes of irritation, had to whip out his cell phone to share it with someone else. “It’s me, I’m on the train. Listen, we *can not* move to Connecticut fast enough. It’s the second day of this, and it’s so disorganized. I can’t believe…” And on and on, for five minutes.
Now, please note that the train hadn’t been late up to this point; we might have been even running a little quick. The delay more or less meant that he got out of the train at the same time as usual. And yet, he not only had to throw a rod over it, but he had to share that snit fit with everyone else.
If I were a taller, stronger, bigger (or, well, just better) man, I’d have interrupted his conversation to note that the rest of us couldn’t wait until he moved to Connecticut, too. Since on the day he leaves, we’ll all get to celebrate the One Less Asshat holiday. Maybe there will be festive dancing.
Second moment. I’m walking NYC streets at lunch. Young guys in a small crowd are exchanging shout outs and assessments of young women, a quarter of a block away. It’s all more or less happening on a subconcious level, and that’s when one of the young guys with his pants down low, as per the usual style… and then he takes the easy access to manipulate his junk, to the point where I was starting to wonder if he wasn’t going to, well, produce. Inside the waistband, for enough time that he’d have been whistled by any NBA ref for a lane violation. This isn’t a homeless guy, either.
Now, Dear Reader, I’m really not a prude. I won’t get into the things I’ve done in my time, because they aren’t relevant. But I’ve never been tempted, even in the throes of unrequited blue ball adolescence, to lift and tuck from the inside, in public. (A little back and forth or scratch? Hell Yeah. Itch Happens.) But good God in heaven, has personal shame taken a permanent walk?
