I have a love-hate relationship with public transportation. As rush hours go, I resigned to being just another sardine the human-sized can.
The warning sign reads: don’t lean against the door. The stick figure person's limbs flail precariously. What do you think is worse, falling out while the L is underground and potentially being crushed and zapped or falling from an open, but elevated platform and risking a spinal injury. Freak accidents happen every day; you need to have a plan.
My butt was already pressed against the divider near someone’s face when some rando slid their hand in to join the tuna train. Dude, the conductor said there’s another train following immediately. There’s no need to force yourself. (Side eye. Like duh, another one is behind us. That’s how train tracks work, Mrs. Conductor!)
I had to reposition from butt in face to face in a stranger’s neck. What’s worse, trying not to breathe like a creepy stalker into someone’s hair or containing potential farts?
Like I said: love and hate. The dark humorist loves it. The tired temp worker just wants to go home to Netflix.
So, I'm minding my own business by observing my fellow can-men. This one dude was making googly eyes with some chick. Did he know her and her three friends? They were also making googly eyes with him -- or was it at him?
“Hey ma, you want some Loud?” ask Roberto. Rebecca from the giggling quartet responded, “nah.”
My spidey senses tingled. I braced myself for a Boondocks ninja moment. When Rebecca didn’t bite, he tried his fiya sales pitch on the middle-aged business lady. “Yo lady, you want some Loud?”
I can’t. Neither could the nice lady; she pulled her purse closer and wriggled in what little levensruimte we had to face the other way.
My man was openly soliciting illegal substances. The googly eyes and styrofoam cup finally made sense. Roberto was lit off his bum. The quartet was giggling at him, not with him.
He retrieved a little baggie and cashed it by sprinkling the contents into his palm. Then, ever so casually, blew the specs onto us sardines.
I said. He. Blew. The. Weed. On. Everyone.
You ain't Salt Bae! This train was headed towards an airport! You know, the place where people go to if they're looking to travel across borders a.k.a TSA trap house. Them man stay shaking you down for even thinking of carrying more than a travel-size amount of lotion. Listen, the way my ashy joints are set up -- hmm.
I was so ready to fight this dude. It might be a stretch, but his lil’ stunt could have caused someone to lose their job or worse get dragged my some narco dogs. Thankfully the doors opened, and he stepped up. What an absolute Richard Cranium.
Shout out to all the dealers who know how to solicit to willing customers discreetly.
Created on St. Maarten. Based in Chicago. Onicia Muller (@OniciaMuller) writes, says funny things, and enjoys hanging with creative minds. Originally published in The Daily Herald's Weekender, Just Being Funny is a weekly reflection where Onicia laughs at life.
The warning sign reads: don’t lean against the door. The stick figure person's limbs flail precariously. What do you think is worse, falling out while the L is underground and potentially being crushed and zapped or falling from an open, but elevated platform and risking a spinal injury. Freak accidents happen every day; you need to have a plan.
My butt was already pressed against the divider near someone’s face when some rando slid their hand in to join the tuna train. Dude, the conductor said there’s another train following immediately. There’s no need to force yourself. (Side eye. Like duh, another one is behind us. That’s how train tracks work, Mrs. Conductor!)
I had to reposition from butt in face to face in a stranger’s neck. What’s worse, trying not to breathe like a creepy stalker into someone’s hair or containing potential farts?
Like I said: love and hate. The dark humorist loves it. The tired temp worker just wants to go home to Netflix.
So, I'm minding my own business by observing my fellow can-men. This one dude was making googly eyes with some chick. Did he know her and her three friends? They were also making googly eyes with him -- or was it at him?
“Hey ma, you want some Loud?” ask Roberto. Rebecca from the giggling quartet responded, “nah.”
My spidey senses tingled. I braced myself for a Boondocks ninja moment. When Rebecca didn’t bite, he tried his fiya sales pitch on the middle-aged business lady. “Yo lady, you want some Loud?”
I can’t. Neither could the nice lady; she pulled her purse closer and wriggled in what little levensruimte we had to face the other way.
My man was openly soliciting illegal substances. The googly eyes and styrofoam cup finally made sense. Roberto was lit off his bum. The quartet was giggling at him, not with him.
He retrieved a little baggie and cashed it by sprinkling the contents into his palm. Then, ever so casually, blew the specs onto us sardines.
I said. He. Blew. The. Weed. On. Everyone.
You ain't Salt Bae! This train was headed towards an airport! You know, the place where people go to if they're looking to travel across borders a.k.a TSA trap house. Them man stay shaking you down for even thinking of carrying more than a travel-size amount of lotion. Listen, the way my ashy joints are set up -- hmm.
I was so ready to fight this dude. It might be a stretch, but his lil’ stunt could have caused someone to lose their job or worse get dragged my some narco dogs. Thankfully the doors opened, and he stepped up. What an absolute Richard Cranium.
Shout out to all the dealers who know how to solicit to willing customers discreetly.
Created on St. Maarten. Based in Chicago. Onicia Muller (@OniciaMuller) writes, says funny things, and enjoys hanging with creative minds. Originally published in The Daily Herald's Weekender, Just Being Funny is a weekly reflection where Onicia laughs at life.