bart ticket queue
dear thoughtless in el cerrito,
i know it’s not rush hour, but standing in front of the sole working ticket machine, attempting to pick out your destination station from an alphabetized list, for more than 20 seconds pegs you as mentally handicapped or a twat.
glaring at me when i ask you to stand aside, so i can transact my business, is definitely snooty, but moving back to your former position, as soon as i’m done, to further ponder deeply where exactly you are planning to end this journey of self-discovery and how much it will cost to get you there – in front of the other people in line – is downright rude and cunty.
ripple of evil: i hope you lose your ticket and are forced to pay full fare. as a result, you swear off public transit forever and drive into the city tomorrow to meet your girlfriends for some shopping at macy’s. while on the bay bridge, the new katy perry song comes on the radio and you crank it up. in the few moments your attention is diverted, you miss the S-curve at treasure island and flip your car over the rail. it lands on the rocks below and paramedics arriving on the scene pronounce you extra dead.
there is a story about it on sfgate, but someone, correctly, comments: “and nothing of value was lost“.