I have taken the subway every day this week, and I have yet to have my bags checked. I'm actually a bit disappointed; I want them to check my bags. Because if they check my bags, maybe they'll take me to an air-conditioned bag checking station to do it. Then I won't have to spend another second on the steaming, stinking, sweat-drenched, Blimpie wrapper-laden, crazy guy eating meatloaf from crumpled aluminum foil, souls of a billion dead rats shrieking in pain, tourists with Radio City Music Hall Tour caps taking the downtown to get to the Bronx, old guy who doesn't care that you can't smoke down there anymore, 4'8" woman sneaking between your legs to get on in front of you and then just stands there in the doorway, fat businessman patting his ruddy brow with a Burger King napkin that is quickly turning the car into a snow globe, this train is being held in the station by a drunk brakeman subway platform.
I hate heat waves.
Wednesday, July 27, 2005
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3 comments:
Grow a beard. You'll get searched.
The only thing they'd find in your Subway bag would be a 12" Meatball Sub, buddy.
And nails, and a hammer. He's a killer, but he prefers crucifixion to bombings.
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