Blue Line Behemoth

It was not merely sitting on the train. It was sitting amid the train. A volcano of human flesh looming over all who dwelled in its shadow. It did not even appear to be sitting on the seat but rather as though it was poured into the space it occupied, and then oozing into open spaces its expansion was halted by cooling temperatures. It vaguely resembled a beanbag stuffed between a sofa and coffee table, but with eyes. It was eating Pop Tarts for its morning repast. Given the behemoth cared not about its appearance or even basic manners it chewed it’s cud with jowls wide open. This resulted in a thick layer of Pop Tart crumbs resting on its massive tit shelf. As a result the tit shelf looked like the floor beneath a just-completed drywall project. The eyes had the dull color of bovine curiosity mingled with fat aggression.

The legs, which resembled the bags of fresh cheese one might see suspended from the ceiling of a small food counter in a Little Italy neighborhood somewhere, were of a circumference too large to fit in between it’s own seat and the back of the one in front. Thus these soft redwoods had to be dangled in the aisle between rows of seats for those forced to stand to contend with. They tried their best but on occasion, whether from being accustomed to not encountering giant buoys in the narrow aisle channel or due to abrupt train starts and stops, one of these poor unfortunate souls would collide with its elephantine legs. It would respond with a glare so intense and full of pure unadulterated malice it could stop a charging rhino dead in its tracks. You see, everything is hers. The two-person seat row she occupies by herself, is hers. The Pop Tarts are hers. All the Sunkist Orange Soda in the land is hers. The potato chip aisle at Jewel is hers. The pizza arriving at the door, though meant for three, is hers. An inordinate amount of oxygen is hers. The box of donuts a thoughtful coworker brought into the office this morning, is hers. And you’d better fucking well believe that the common space betwixt rows of seats, is HERS. You dare impede upon it? Her hate of those who try to claim some small piece of what is hers respects no borders and knows no bounds. Her hate burns holes into the backs of her transgressors. What is hers is hers and what is yours is hers, and don’t you fucking forget it.

One brave soul dared challenge her alpha status within our train car and asked that she move her feet. She shook like the proverbial bowl full of Jello and responded “Rruhh hruahh wahh huhh rah hahr!” (“Bring me Solo and the Wookie!”). Her dominance asserted, she slowly but deliberately opened a new package of Pop Tarts.

About Zach

Male homo sapien. Warrior poet. I live in Chicago with one wife, one offspring, and Scout the dog. I enjoy various stuff. Besides skinny skiing and going to bullfights on acid, I also enjoy running, reading, drinking, eating and procrastinating on many things, such as starting this blog. I have a mom, a dad, and a younger brother who recently produced a sister-in-law. I'm the only person in my family, sister-in-law included, who doesn't have a post-graduate degree. I guess that makes me special. I grew up in a small to medium sized town in the middle of Ohio. In fact the even smaller town next door has a sign which reads "The Geographic Center of Ohio". Given this is what they choose to boast you can only imagine how exciting that town is. My town is infinitely cooler. For example on weekend nights people from my town and the surrounding villages and hamlets converge on the public square to "cruise" in their souped-up mini trucks, some bearing Confederate flags, despite growing up and living rather safely north of the Mason-Dixon line. This is high-minded stuff we're talking about here. I graduated sometime during the Clinton presidency from the local high school where I played football and participated in absolutely nothing else. This strategy paid huge dividends when I applied to numerous colleges on the eastern seaboard which were highly selective. When you show up to the admissions table with "HIgh School Football and Nothing Else" on your application, you get respect. After graduating from Ohio University with a degree in Economics that I've used for absolutely nothing, I moved to Boston. Boston is a lovely city. I was doing things I'm not proud of for beer money and I left after 16 months. My next move was to Chicago and 10+ years later there I still reside. I write this blog for therapeutic reasons. Much like some people paint to relax or smoke crack to unwind after a stressful day, I record my thoughts on Al Gore's World Wide Web for 9 friends, 4 family members, 1 person who accidentally clicked through after an unsuccessful Google search for something else, and a guy named Patriot1 who lives in a silver Air Stream in the Nevada desert and broadcasts his own radio show. Is there a point to all of this? I doubt it. Years ago and in a galaxy far, far away (College Park, Maryland, then Athens, Ohio) I was toying with the idea of being a journalism major. I enjoyed writing so it seemed the obvious fit. Then I attended career day and learned that journalism majors could look forward to a salary of $EA,TSH.IT per year with the promise of a fatal heart attack at 47 years of age. I'm not falling for that trick, I told them (them being no one, and told being saying it in my own mind in the shower). Approximately 15 years later here I sit declared the big winner in that battle: I never made any money doing anything else and now I'm writing entirely for free. So suck balls, journalism career day. The views expressed in this website are mine and mine entirely. I don't wish to be an even bigger black eye to my family than I probably already am. As a result of this I will never be able to run for public office and I accept that reality. But this website is a very dignified, well-dressed skeleton full of witty retorts and honorable deeds compared to the disheveled, stenching, staggering and loud skeletons who would come marching out of the closet to White Zombie's "Thunderkiss '65" if they ever unearthed the college years. So enjoy your train ride, your hangover day at work, your AA meeting or your dump. I'm here to serve.
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