What Train?

Asshole and I went to the 3rd of July fireworks, a long-standing tradition of ours that stretches back to when we were in high school, around the time that Marco Polo first brought gunpowder back to the western world. Sometimes, that’s how old I feel.

The fireworks were okay; it’s not an election year, so Richard II doesn’t spend as much money (usually four times as much). But we met up with some friends of Asshole’s, one co-worker and her friend, who is from Israel and did serve in the IDF. That is much cooler than any fireworks I have seen in a long time! Any thug gangsta out there, from any shitty, destroyed neighborhood in any inner city rife with violence and corruption is a total, utter pussy to any grandma living in Israel, especially if she’s a Sabra.

The night progressed; we had some drinks in a local pub, the Wabash Tap, in order to get out of the rain and let the mass transit crowd thin out. Eventually it did, and we said goodbye to our new friends and hopped on the Green Line; Asshole wanted the company on the train and offered to give me a ride home. Fuckin’ fraidy cat…

The conductor we had was hilarious! Every stop, he would inform the passengers and those waiting on the platform that it was a “Green Line Train to Harlem and Lake,” a minimum of seven times. He had to do this for two reasons: the signs on the train were stuck, displaying everything from purple to green to yellow lines (speaking of which, if the CTA really wants to save money, it should just dump the Skokie Swift; like, ten people ride it; get on Metra!); the second reason was for idiot dipshits who can’t (or won’t) listen, much like the example I will now put forth. We pull into the State/Lake stop, and the driver starts his mantra, along with some nice little inclusions, like “Ignore what the signs say, this is a Green Line train; it is NOT a Purple or Yellow or Brown Line train. It is a Green Line train; not a Purple line train.” The doors are open for several minutes while he’s letting people know. While the doors to our car are open, and during the conductor’s monologue, this utterly stupid, white man has been staring at the train, at the signs, inside the doors, looking completely bewildered. After the third iteration on the conductor’s message has been broadcast, Dipshit (who is wearing a polo that is sold at Hell) asks us, “Is this a Purple Line train?” Asshole and I just start laughing; everyone else stares at this guy like stupid is contagious. The doors shut before I could say, “Sure is! Hop on!”

What is this paranormal power white people have when it comes to ignoring what could be considered “the help?” When I am greeting, some of the things I say to white customers goes completely unheeded: when I wish them tumors; when I observe that sucking cock does make one deaf (must be all the changes in internal head pressure or something); that fools will buy anything; and so on. But if I tried to slide one of these past someone who actually cleans their own home, I’d get my pee-pee spanked.

Will someone who is rich and white explain this to me? I f I were you, I’d pay attention to what the “little people” are saying. How many figurative (and literal) Bastille’s must be stormed before the rich learn to fear and respect those “below” them?

I love it when a blog gets away from me.


-Zeepdoggie