I never thought the day would come where I'd see myself in a train wreck.....without any actual physical damage, bloodshed, or, most importantly, news coverage. The wounds, however, reached far into the psyche, blemishing an entire colony of brain cells that were once so useful. Remember those 3/4 sleeve shirts from the 70's, a la Jack Tripper? You know what I'm talking about....those T-shirts with the white body and whatever-coloured-sleeves that spans approximately 3/4's of the arm? Raglan tees, I believe. Needless to say, only certain people should be wearing those...and that constituency clearly does NOT include people who think their perfectly placed drunken combover matches their blue jeans, blue Kamakazi, and blue-green 3/4 sleeves. As he tried to invade the occupied restroom, I half-nicely indicate that it is taken, and he sits without word or incident.
We finally take our seats [we being my ultra-hot boyfriend Mark and I, who is ultra-hot as well HAHAHAHAHAHAHA], across the aisle from this woman who is a rather fruity yet bovine blend of a curly-haired-Jeanene-Garofolo and that lesbian activist from Legally Blond. This is someone you can picture without knowing who Jeanene Garofolo is, or what Legally Blond was. Smoking is a bad habit....nail-biting is a bad habit....laughing at NOTHING is habitually reprehensible! How easily entertained is the "I-still-use-Ogilvie-Home-Perm" spokesmodel as she bellows at a repugnant group of pre-pubescent, intoxicated Wastechester snobs who board and overrun the center of our car? The blond tressed bimbo, who we'll call "Sterling" [of Sterling Hitchcock and sterling silver shame] dominates the aura with her random ideas of conversation. Her electorate is comprised of an obviously sickened-by-alcohol temptress who we'll call "Sloan" [of Sloan-Kettering notoriety], her boytoy who we'll pen "Matt" [because all teeny-bopper-nelly-bottom-twinks who are gay and don't know it yet should be named Matt], and a style-less geek who evidently did NOT read the instructions on her weave-it-and-believe-it-yourself kit who we'll designate as "June" [because I ran out of upper-crust monikers].
"Sterling" wastes very little time in chatting the ears off of anyone willing to listen. Lucky for her [insert eye-roll here], she sinks her verbal fangs into an unsuspecting triad of pseudo-intellectuals who turn their attention from cursory conversation about "taking a shit" [as opposed to giving a shit?] to "Sterling," who is ranting about moving 17 times in 17 years [to jump...from....seventeen floors...and crash...into...freefall.....thanks Siouxsie]. Shouts of "HARRISON SUCKS" permeate the car, as if that's not an overstatement of the oblivious. "Sterling" and "Matt" continue the refrain, attempting to indicate the exact size of cock that Harrison indeed sucks [PS kids, if a town were physically able to wrap its jaws around anything, your statement would be almost intellectually feasible]. "June" sits there like a bored hooker, chatting uselessly on a cell phone, serving no purpose other than to be a poster-child of the fashion disaster [If I were digitally smart, I would create a poster containing a picture of this girl with that big red no-smoking red circle with the slash through it and place it on 7th Avenue, otherwise known as Fashion Avenue, for Fashion Week]. "Matt" takes "Sloan" to the boxed bathroom as she indicates the need to hurl her previously ingested boozeriffic goodies. "Sterling" asks the previously mentioned threesome what schools they attended, etc etc etc. "Ogilvie" sits there, still laughing at nothing, as she absorbs the a-humourous atmosphere. "June" will probably not be referred to anymore in this column. "Matt" and "Sloan" do a few more reps to and from the lavatory.
"Sterling" seems to forget about her entourage and prolongs the agony with her random topics. Nobody is interested anymore, expect "Ogilvie," of course. "Sterling" turns her focus from idle raves to the train conductor, from whom she requests a hi-5, and he half-heartedly given in. "Sterling" states, "That guy loves me," and he turns around, flashing a non-caring smile. A gentleman, dressed in what looks like a doorman's [or is it doorperson's?] outfit [black suit, white shirt, those damned tuxedo-esque black and white shoes] walks through our car looking to obtain the exit door and "Sterling," thinking she can engage anything that moves, yaps to him, and all he offers is a very snotty "EXCUSE ME LADIES!" Too bad there were no ladies involved, because that would have been an almost workable statement otherwise.
Am I the only other one who would rather have been watching The Anna Nicole Smith Show?
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