Friday, March 13, 2009

Crazy Train

I had a really hard week this week at work, and by this afternoon my shoulder blades were pretty much in a permanent clench. Imagine my joy then, when, on the subway ride home, I stood next to a man who began—out of the blue—to make squawking birdlike noises and then proceeded to yell "MY VAGINA IS ON FIRE!" over and over.

You can tell I'm a New Yorker because the thing that bothers me most about this man is not his nonsensical screaming but the fact that he chose to conceal his freak show until halfway through the ride (by my earlier definition, you might say he was a Slow Burner). I know not to sit next to the obvious nuts ("the Bullseyes"), whose crazy is physically manifest in rolling eyes, lolling tongues, and hats made out of spatulas. But this dude was just standing by the doors in a brown trench coat, looking for all the world like an average guy, albeit one who—we would soon learn—had phantom, flaming labia.

Here's what I want to know: What sets them off? At one point does the dormant crazy decide to well up and exit through the mouth and limbs? And WHY, LORD, are they always sitting right next to me?

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