AT THE VERY LEAST, HE DID MAKE THE TRAINS RUN ON TIME
Here’s my New Year’s resolution: I’m going to stop putting up with you fucking people who don’t know how to walk in a city. I’m just going to carry a lead pipe pull and Nancy Kerrigan your fucking knees so that you have to stay inside all the time. Hopefully crying uncontrollably and periodically losing control of your sphincter because of the pain. And maybe if I’m lucky your family will eventually take you out back and shoot you, then send your remains to the glue factory so when I’m sealing the envelope that contains my final installment for the new lead pipe I have on layaway, a small piece of you goes with it.
Many of you will blame the tourists, and while I don’t necessarily agree that they are the bulk of the problem, I think some sort of licensing system could be the solution. You see, walking in a crowded urban area is much like driving – you don’t only have to worry about yourself, but about those travelling alongside you. Did you stop suddenly? You fucked up. Do you walk diagonally, weave back and forth, or otherwise fail to walk in a straight line? You fucked up. Are you standing directly in front of the subway entrance talking to someone, trying to decide which train to take and blocking everyone either coming or going? I’m pushing you both down the stairs, then paying a homeless guy $20 to urinate on you at the bottom.
Then, of course, there’s the class of vehicle. For example, on my license it clearly states I’m only allowed to operate a class D vehicle, “less than 26001 lbs., except for school bus” (let’s not get into the fact that the ONLY big-ass fucker I’m allowed to operate is filled with screaming kids who like fires, throwing things, and loud noises). Well, the same should go for walking. Are you hugely fat? Like, waddling fat? You take up too much space. Like certain highways are off-limits to 18-wheelers, the sidewalks are now off-limits to you. The good news is that you get your own lane, the Waddling Lane. Instead of a diamond (like the car-pool lane), your symbol is three cheesecakes inside a circle of self-loathing. The bad news (for you) is all the new lanes are one-way and head directly to Georgia, where they loves them some fatties and enjoy a slower, more sedentary way of life. Plus, they’ll deep-fry anything.
As for the people who walk 3- or 4-abreast, or couples who refuse to stop holding hands on insanely crowded streets, a fine system will be put in place. For group offenders, the first and only citation involves all of you being thrown into a pit and fighting to the death over a Corky from “Life Goes On” figurine (symbolic of your absolute fucking inability to properly function in society). The last person standing perpetuates survival of the fittest (thereby ensuring you’re less likely to walk slowly or erratically), plus he or she has killed the rest of their group, so problem solved. For couples, the fine is that I get to have sex with your girlfriend. Unless she’s ugly or something, in which case you having sex with her is probably punishment enough. In that case, or in the case of a man-and-man couple, the elderly, etc., the licenses will simply be revoked (i.e. knee-smashin’ time!).
And so forth and so on until this issue is resolved.
Thank you, and happy fucking New Year.