I'm consistently baffled by the inability of the riders of the escalators at Penn Station to:
A. STAND on the right. PASS on the left.
B. Wait your melon-farming* turn to get on. Especially on the right-hand side of the right-hand escalator on the 32nd street exit. Some douchebag decided to motor all the way to the front of the line by Staples and cut off about 15 of us who waited in an orderly fashion to board said escalator. He must have been very important. Why, without your crown and cape, your majesty--I just can't recognize you.
*melon-farming replaces the "oedipal expletive," which rhymes with "brother-trucking" in this instance.
2 comments:
I am SO there with you. And it's not only at Penn, brother.
I've been a big advocate for what I call the Violence Lottery. Anyone who has a social security number has a chance of winning one day in which to inflict non-lethal harm on anyone who pisses them off. And the 'victim' has no legal recourse. I think that the perfect Violence Lottery weapon would be a good-sized cattle prod. When I become Queen and enact this very sensible program, I shall fix it so you are the first person to win. Now imagine entering Penn Station armed with your cattle prod...
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