Tuesday, December 15, 2009

It is only funny when I do it.

Yesterday, as I was leaving work, I got onto the free LMA (Longwood medical area) shuttle. It takes you from the LMA to Ruggles station, all in all saving about a 15-20 minute walk. As per usual, we packed in like sardines. Usually when this happens I just stand and bare it. It's only about a 6 minute drive so I kind of zone out, or check out any of the hotties that happen to be on the bus today (or who happen to be jogging along the river way.)
As I'm about to enter my commuter zombie-like trance, I caught a whiff. For those of you who know me, I'm big into smells. I like trying to describe them as accurately as possible so you, the reader, get the full olfactory joy of what it is I'm experiencing.
This will be no exception in my case, but what I smelled was nothing other than a rancid Bologna fart. Pure and simple. I can't describe it any more acutely than that. It smelled like someone shoved a slice of Bologna up their ass, and then let out a little squeaker.
It was bad. I mean real bad. My eyes were watering, and I was nauseous. I tried frantically and deliriously to open a window, but they'd all been locked shut for the winter.
Seriously people?! Farting! In public?! Disgusting! Who does that? That is not funny.
As the bus pulls around to drop people off, I burst out of the doors in the comical cartoon fashion and all that was left was an outline of my shape in the closed door.
I had rushed down and jumped aboard the U.S.S. Orange line, and got a good seat near the door, but not near enough that I'd have to give up my seat to an elderly person or a disabled person. Don't get me wrong, I'm not evil. I give up my seat when the train is packed, it is just that those old traces of chivalry still live in me and I feel guilty when I don't give up my seat to a woman who looks older than I do.
All was well on the orange line. Typical crazies: angry teenagers who are upset about something someone did, religious knobs who sell Jesus or the flying spaghetti monster, and the occasional homeless person who takes up 3 seats. All was well, until Chinatown.
Someone got on from Chinatown carrying bags of what must have been garbage. I can only describe it as such. The bags were squishy, yet paradoxically crunchy, and they had the arresting, musty funk of trash cans left out in the humid June air. The sort of stink that attracts black flys in seconds.
It was like an affront to God. It was unholy, and the angels wept.
Unfortunately I was lazy and didn't get up to move. Curse my stupid lethargic ass!
Thankfully at North Station I was given a reprieve of the stink because I had to get off. The offending bags of trash had to be moved a bit to let people off, and where they were sitting on the floor was a glistening, rainbow colored film of putrescence.
Oh man, do I love riding public transportation.

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