BAMF

I just need to thank you for momentarily changing the way I perceive this citys public transportation system. Long have I thought of it as an open forum for the citys poor and somewhat less than poor alike to turn an efficient mode of public transit into a part of my life that is convenient, yet utterly disgusting. There must be a thousand empty bags of Cheetos crammed in between the seats and the wall, yet it just wouldnt be public trans without them.

Your pure, unrestrained drunkenness undoubtedly made it impossible for you to clearly remember this train ride. It was crowded so you were standing, as were many of the passengers. Next to you was your boyfriend, a man with red hair, a goatee and clothes that may have been in style during his fraternity days in 1999. My apologies if I am being presumptuousif he wasnt your boyfriend then he was definitely grabbing your ass more than the average white male late night rider might.

Enough settingback to the topic at hand. You were quite drunk and would have been more comfortable sitting in a position where you could have simply passed out. You were standing, however, and for some reason your arms didnt seem to be functioning because you were propping yourself up by resting your face against the upright handbar.

Perhaps in your intoxicated state you thought it was a giant corn dog, because you were damn near licking the very bar that thousands of homeless people, commuters, chronic masturbaters, and ass-scratching scumbags grab hold of when the train lurches to a stop. The manner in which you was firmly committed to mouthing that bar almost convinced me that the palm sweat of half the city of Chicago must somehow make it delicious. Perhaps it has something to do with just the right combination of salts and spices from the countless fingers of people having their ghetto lunches of Cheetos and Doritos. For a moment, I perceived the train as a true monument to flavor, thanks to your revolting display of public drunkenness. Perhaps as an encore you should next try licking the train’s electrified “third rail!”

In the end I came to my senses and simply thought to myself Woah there drunky! The train hasnt arrived at White Castle just yet. For a moment there though, you really distorted my view of this towns beloved train system!

Sincerely,
Tzeen

P.S. the top you were wearing looks like something the police might wave before an injured deer to distract it before they shoot it in the head. You should demote it from Friday night bar hopping top to dust rag.

Sleep has got to be the devil’s most fiendish plot. Few things feel as good as putting your head on that pillow, closing your eyes, and letting the dreary damnation of the day slip away.

But you always pay for it in the morning.Insomnia is clearly the better deal. At least you know you’re going to feel shitty, but you get that second wind.

No. With sleep you drift off and it’s all good times. You get that warm feeling. And then the sky begins to lighten. And then you’re ripped from sleep by the noxious blarings of your alarm clock like an aborted fetus from a womb.

No.I’m not bitter at making procrastination an art form. Writing 1,000 words in 4 hours–admittedly wasting 2 hours cheating on the paper with the Internet like Hugh Grant with a cheap call girl–isn’t bad. No, the bad part is getting the assignment at the beginning of the term and then waiting until 14 hours before it’s due to start any work on it. Then staying up ’til 3 a.m. to get the fucker done. And then being so wired from all the no-doz, jolt, and double shot espressos that you can’t fucking fall asleep.

No, wait, the worst part is the fact that the paper had to be written about Saul Bellow.But then again, better to be a college student than just about anything else.

Holy shit, that makes me feel better. My life is infinitely easier than almost everyone else’s. Ha.

Rants? I should be in raves, bitch. Now where’s my pacifier?”

Some people will tell you baseball is our National Pastime. Our naptime, if you will. Other people laugh at these people and say it’s football. We can all laugh at people who think soccer is even a sport.

Nay, they are all wrong (except for those of us who laugh at soccer). Public Urination is indeed our National Pastime.

It’s not a privilege; it’s not a right; it’s a fucking doodie, I mean duty!

What greater joy is there than unzipping one’s pants in broad daylight in order to partake in the warm pleasure of a golden stream darkening and scenting ground that will be seen–and almost as importantly, smelled–by numerous passers-by. I say there is none!

Chicago Cubs fans know all about public urination (as does Southsider Raygun). They are perhaps the scholarly experts on the subject: technique, history, social significance. They know so much about it the city had to pass a law limiting the dissemination of such knowledge via graphic display.

Swearing is legal, but pissing on brick is not. Go figure.