Some teenaged bitch-goddess with a cell phone welded to the titanium plate in her skull jumped on my train this afternoon and didn’t shut the fuck up for what I now consider to be the thirty most painful minutes of my life.
Figure 1: Apparently someone died, went to Hell, and managed to come back with a photo.
This pain in the ass waltzes onto the Silver Spring metro determined to assault each and every of my five senses to the greatest extent possible:
- Sense #1 – Hearing: I heard the bitch before I saw her, yammering away on what later turned out to be a Samsung Juke – which, for those who don’t know, is a cell phone purchased only by people whose level of stupidity could only be described as ‘unreasonable’. Her voice was insanely annoying – imagine Hillary Clinton high on PCP getting banged in the ass around age 17 or so. My hearing would be the first, last, and most thoroughly bludgeoned of my senses. I’ll get into the details in a bit.
- Sense #2 – Sight: After recognizing the unmistakable whine of a female teenage voice, I did what any man would do: I looked in her direction with a determined snarl in the faint hope that she wouldn’t sit near me. This was a mistake, because this girl’s appearance was so…confusing…that I am now legally colorblind. This idiot, who was a Ginger with skin so pale it bordered on translucent, apparently woke up this morning and said “if the concept of ‘howling and screaming’ somehow became anthropomorphically incarnate, I wonder how it would dress?” She then went outside and raided a gay pride parade, stealing all the flags which she would use to make a really shitty looking tube top and butt-cheek revealing rainbow short shorts – but not before stopping by the local Goth repository to pick up a rivet studded black leather biker girl purse to show she had a ‘dark side’. This chick’s outfit looked like the pile of clothes that’d be left on the floor if Marilyn Manson and George Takei ripped each others clothes off and started fucking.
- Senses #3 & 4 – Smell and Taste: The Ginger walked by me, and the combination of extreme heat and whatever Britney Spears Le Peau de Funk nose hair melting ‘fragrance’ she was wearing got me about as close as I figure I’ll ever get to physically attacking a female. This chick smelled like a West African animal proctology clinic. Of course, since smell and taste are so closely linked, it was only a matter of seconds before I went from just smelling the ass to actually tasting it – which of course led to…
- Sense #5 – Touch: She tasted so bad, I broke my hand punching her in the vagina, and it hurt like a motherfucker.*
Anyhow, you’ll recall above how I said I shot her a snarl to keep her away from me. This, of course, didn’t work, because she was on the phone and, like all women on the phone, she was completely oblivious to anything and everything going on around her regardless of how threatening it was. My black ass could’ve been sitting there clutching a bloody butcher knife while wearing a wedding dress covered with hundreds of severed cocks and she still would’ve sat next to me.
Figure 2: Why does a wedding dress make a woman seem just a hair away from going completely apeshit?
So here this girl sits, and here she will sit indeed for the next half an hour. She spends most of the time on the phone loudly complaining about classmates that she finds annoying. The irony of this seemed so staged that at one point I was actually happy, because I thought maybe I was being punk’d and I’d finally get a chance to beat the living shit out of Ashton Kutcher.
That didn’t happen, so instead I sat there taking mental notes of just how much personal information she was giving to everyone in that subway car:
- Her first name
- The name and general location of her school
- The first and last name of the (presumptive) chick she was talking to
- Where she was going and why she was on the Metro
- The name and street intersection of her place of summer employment
- Her email address (I actually remembered it, and am very tempted to release it publicly)
- Her last name (part of her email address)
- What’s she’s doing on Friday, where, at what time, and who with
- The name of the condo/apartment complex where she lives with her parents and little brother
This idiot is an Amber Alert waiting to happen, but I could really care less. All I could think about as I exited the train was whether or not she’s more annoying than this.
*Ok, so this didn’t happen…but you know damn well you wanted it to.