TALES FROM THE SUBWAY
The subway can be a convenient way to get around, but every now and then you have to put up with some nonsense –
trash, garbled announcements, late trains, weirdos, the pungent aroma of fermented wino urine and the occasional odd billboard.
I spotted this beauty recently while waiting for the train.
You know that the guys depositing their splooge in that savings and loan don’t even remotely resemble the guy in the ad. (Who by the way, appears vaguely embarrassed in the photograph. It’s probably the only shot where both of his hands weren’t covering his face.)
And how do you really know if they look like their photo? Haven’t we learned enough from dating service ads? With my luck, after nine months of abstaining from that sweet nectar that is Grey Goose, I’d end up pushing out a nine pound Mason Reese. (And for you young bucks out there scratching your heads saying, “What IZ Mason Reese?” Screw you, look it up on Google.)
College educated? Could we be a little more specific here? I’d hate to think that correspondence school counts.
Does one have a choice between an Ivy Leaguer’s swimmers, or are you forced to settle for the baby batter of a community college frat boy wannabe on the six year plan?
How about a history detailing serious mental illnesses that run in the family? And here come the questions! Any window lickers? A step-uncle with a Wayne Newton obsession? Did Memaw swear that there were Japanese soldiers from WWII hiding behind her Rhododendron shrubs? Of course, I’m the first to admit my entire family is nuts, but I’m used to it. I just don’t know if I have the patience for the unknown crazy.
When you get down to brass tacks, and all things being equal, Mrs. Crankipants prefers her man jam as a direct deposit, if you catch my drift….
But don’t get excited, boys, I don’t cotton to non-sufficient funds.