Having said that, I don't just ride the rocket because I'm a professional loser, although that has a lot to do with it. Toronto happens to be an impossible city to drive in. It was designed to accommodate maybe a half million people comfortably and now almost three million call it home, with another million and change commuting in every day. I could probably walk the 20 miles to work faster than I could drive it - and my cock is easier to park downtown than even a hatchback, although my formidably thick wang is bigger.
Anyhow, spending three hours a day on the TTC makes me feel something that liberal shitheads would probably call racism. But being the worldly type that I am, I recognize it for it is, a special blend of misanthropy and xenophobia.
You see, I've come to view my commute as special. It's "me time" whereupon I can focus solely on just how much I detest everything that my life has become. I find it prepares me for the next eight hours, that I know I'll spend praying for the giant coronary that finally finishes me off. Sometimes my internal monologue includes me practicing Redd Foxx's classic "I'm coming, Elizabeth!" line until I feel it's perfect, but mostly I just listen to Kevin Smith's 600 podcasts and ruminate.
The very last thing I need during those desperate hours is bizarre cultural spectacles that creep everybody the fuck out. This is Me Time, Asshole!
Case in point, I was coming home on the subway today from what was a truly hateful week at work, and I just wanted to listen to my Adam Corolla podcast and be left the fuck alone. I'm a pretty easy guy to please that way, I know. I hear it a lot. It was early enough in the day that the train wasn't the shitstorm of chaos and awful smells that it becomes just half an hour later and I was pleased with my ability to manipulate my staff into coming in early so that I could flee. I was as close to peace with myself as I get.
It was not to last long. A gentleman of Pakistani extraction decided to sit across the aisle from me. He was in his late forties or early fifties and wearing a golf cap and shirt, a spring jacket and chinos, all of which were equally creased and rumpled. It was actually a pretty impressive sartorial display, and I'm a guy who own a "Richard Nixon Athletic Department" t-shirt that I remain as proud of as the day I bought it in 1998.
He wasn't all that interested in me, but that wouldn't matter in mere seconds. And that's where shit gets creepy and weird.
There was this African girl who was maybe twenty years old in a hijab and immodestly tight jeans that caught his fancy in the next row of seats to his right. He expressed his interest in her by turning his portly frame so that he faced her, with his arm and leg over the seat immediately next to her. And he started pounding a beat on the back of the seat. An exotic beat. No good could come of this, thought I, trying as I was to listen to overly excitable Tea Party nativism and simplistic economics from a third-rate comedian and Andrew Brietbart.
Don't get me wrong, I would never condemn a man for ogling a girl less than half his age. I'm just not so fucking blatantly obvious about it. If you've read this blog for any length of time, you'd know that I'm far too classy for that. I also strive not to make my carnal intentions known to women that wear symbols of religious piety, unless they're worn for clearly ironic reasons. Strippers with crucifix necklaces have been a favorite of mine since I was six.
Then, over the maybe three feet that separated them, he started singing to her. Loudly enough that I could hear it above my maxed-out iPod, which meant that everybody else in the car could hear it, too. And this cat was no Nusrat Fateh Ali Khan. I would've dug that and maybe jammed with him for a few bars.
Because he was singing in Urdu - which, again, I could hear and identify over a really loud Corolla podcast - I had know idea what he singing about. For all I know, it could have been a touching ballad about what a Jew-loving pig I am and how I should be slaughtered and my entrails left on the train tracks, but I don't think so. I wouldn't have necessarily disagreed with such a song, but that wasn't the vibe I was getting from it. The dude was trying to get his own bad self laid.
And he failed spectacularly. By the second verse, the object of his affection got the fuck up and hightailed it to the nearest exit. Where she remained for the next four stops. The best part? He went into a third verse. I felt horrible for this girl and started wondering how much damage my steel-toed boots could do on this asshole's skull. My initial estimate was somewhere in the neighborhood of "a lot."
As an aside, Africans traditionally understand about as much Urdu as your average Confederate soldier from the U.S civil war. But this girl knew that something devious, wrong and not in her best interests was afoot, as I suppose one does when a stranger starts melodically cooing to you in a tounge foreign to everyone in his immediate vicinity. His wardrobe did him no favors, either.
I tried giving her a sympathetic glance, but that was avoided on her side, what with my being an awkwardly tall white guy with a shaved head and all. I'm what you might call in an acquired taste in most communities, which is too bad, seeing as though I'm such a "people person."
It gets better. Our South Asian Hero didn't stop there. Once his One True Love turned away, he kept staring at the back of her covered head. And when she turned around, he waved at her and launched into a fucking fourth verse of his song! Or it might have been the bridge. Bridges are designed to get girls damp in drawers. Just ask Lemmy.
Now, I hardly consider myself an intellectual but everything I know wasn't learned from talk radio. I find that the best way to learn lessons is to ask questions. And the Pakistani on the subway was a Pandora's Box of queries.
As I mentioned earlier, this guy was even older than I am. And he had a confidence in his delivery that undermined the notion that this was the first time that he attempted this particular strategy of seduction. Singing to strangers in language that no one understands in public is something that I would think he had done a few times before. Then there was his particular manner of haute couture. I get the idea of loving an outfit so much that you live in it for weeks at a time, but in my experience, the ladies don't.
What I'm getting at is this must have worked for him before, and more than once. Men are famously creatures of habit and aren't given to sudden changes in their seductive technique.
Somehow, somewhere. some woman - probably a pious African woman, what with the creatures of habit of men, and all - heard this cat's mating song and lept right into his lap and cooed "You are from Rawalpindi, yes? Take me now, here in the subway! I need it! I need you! Only you! In the ass! Be my Daddy!"
Although it contradicts everything I know about the human condition and the female sexual psyche, it must have worked for him at least once. And that's why I hate humanity.
If you want to know why I hate myself, consider this: I just wrote 1,386 words describing an event that took less than ten minutes to actually happen. And I can almost guarantee you that this little essay isn't going to get me laid.
So who's the bigger loser, me or the obnoxious singing Pakistani? Is this how the TTC is supposed to be the Better Way? Does it it exist for me to find more reasons to hate myself? Is this why I pay my fucking taxes?
I should have killed myself when I was three.
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