August 7, 2006

• holey junk…

  i ride the T to work.  massachusetts people call it the T, new yorkers call it the Metro and the english call it the tube (? is that right? or am i making shit up…it’s been known to happen…)  but i ride the T.

  
  

  the subway system in Boston is the first subway system ever created in the United States…so needless to say, it leaves us with a lot to be desired.  but that’s not what this is about…this is about the patrons of the subway.

  
  

  on my way TO work, the patrons are all of similar breed: business-business casual attire…coffee, newspapers, books, ipods in tote.  no one ever looks happy, which is sad to me.  i never look happy either, though, even when i am…i’m just still half asleep (not being a morning person at all) and i keep a straight face or a sleeping face while sitting on the train.

  
  

  on my way FROM work to my 1987 Pontiac Bonneville, parked in Quincy Adams garage (don’t go steal it now…actually please do)…the crowd varies.  not everyone on the train is of the same breed: some are touristing around the city, returning home from south station, off of a greyhound bus they took from an undisclosed location…and some are just cooky people who have awoken later than the working person and rummage their way around the train system until dinner time and find their way home after a long day of weirding out the yuppies.

  
  

  these are my favorite people.

  
  

  because underneath my slacks, button up and (so very) smoothed hair, i too am a weirdo.  i hide it so much better than these guys because i am a young woman.  no one ever suspects the young woman with the yuppie-outfit on to be quirky and ocd-like and understand the blatant fruit-cakes in a capacity greater than they would anticipate.

  
  

  but the other day, i found my match.  the one person whom i couldn’t relate to on the crazy-level…and i couldn’t figure out where he was coming from.  and had i not been so close to him, i might not hav noticed this impenetrable level of strange:

  
  

  the “junk” portion of his crotch area on his jeans was worn out … there were holes there.  and why/how did i see and notice this?  i was napping on the train and awoke to someone’s junk in my face…with holes in the fabric.

  
  

  …holey junk.

  
  

  now here’s the problem…he looked clean cut.  that doesn’t always mean something, but for a holey junk area…i think assessing the rest of the person and their attire is reasonable in hypothesizing the reasons behind why he’d do such a thing:

  
  

  1.  he bought a pair ‘distressed’ jeans on clearance…for the obvious reason of it being distressed in a precarious area.

  
  

  2.  he could one of those genius types who only focuses on probabilities and rides the train around the city to prove theories….and he’s been so wrapped up in one theory, that requires him to lean over roughly textured surfaces for periods on end, for so long that he completely neglected to check and see if his junk has worn a hole through his jeans.

  
  

  3.  he dropped a power sander on his jeans, that were lying on the floor, and he hasn’t saved up enough money to buy a new pair.

  
  

  4.  (shudder) (but this one is probably closer to the truth than i’d like to admit) he likes rubbing himself up on trees, statues, park benches, etc. and he was on his way home from a long day of doing that.  he planned on changing his jeans once he got home for a new day of rubbing, tomorrow.

  
  

  5.  he intentionally sands down that part of his jeans, to catch a draft.  he may like a gentle breeze on his junk.  and he enjoys when girls who are innocently sitting on the train to look up, out of their cat nap, to notice the holes right there.  and both things, together, make him the happiest man in the world.

  
  

  i’ll never know…but i suggest you double check your jeans tonight, gentlemen, if you plan on having anyone at eye level with your junk area, tomorrow.

  
  

  godspeed.

  • 3:46 pm
  • 3 Comments