I’m late for work again, and this moron in front of me is taking a leisurely stroll towards the soon-to-be closing subway doors without a care in the world, blocking me from reaching my destination on time, and all I want to do is knock the bastard on his ass and slip through the narrow passage remaining as the entrance to the train slides shut. What the hell is he thinking? He must realize that the doors are about to close. Even if he is deaf and can’t hear the tri-tone warning that is burned into the minds of every single TTC regular, he can at least see that damn blinking light above the passageway. Does he not care that MY day is going to get delayed by three whole minutes due to his lackadaisical sauntering? In my mind I am no longer a dapper Bay Street big swinging dick, but a burly, unwashed, unshaven, chain-smoking snow plow driver barrelling through the crowd of obstacles knocking them astray into neat little piles of time-wasting detritus. I am the embodiment of mass transit efficiency, a Slow Plow. The saviour of every rushed, impatient, self-obsessed, frustrated and unbearable asshole with whom we all share our common space every morning and afternoon in our hurried economic existence.
You are welcome.