Corpse Run 199: Post partum posterior
So I was playing spades and having a few drinks with Jackie and two other friends last week when someone, I can’t remember who, said the phrase “worked my ass off.”
Then someone, whom I can’t remember again, said, “What if, like, you worked so hard your ass actually came off?”
We are a classy bunch.
Anyone who has ever been on the New York City subway (or any subway, for that matter) has probably witnessed musicians playing in the train cars for cash. While I never give out any spare change (I rarely carry money on me), I do enjoy listening to their music. Heading back to Queens on the train this morning was no exception.
There was a nice, middle-aged guy that busted out a trumpet and sprang into a spirited version of “When the Saints go Marching in.” Passengers throughout the car bobbed their heads and tapped their feet in time with the music; everyone was having a good time.
Until the conductor door opened.
Out strode a big, burly looking older man wearing an MTA jacket who made his way towards the trumpet player, who saw him and immediately stopped playing. The MTA employee nodded and went back to his compartment.
Save for the sound of the train rumbling along the tracks, we were enveloped in silence. All the life had been sucked from the ride.
Everyone looked back at the trumpet guy.
He started blowing random notes in an attempt to taunt the MTA. Bravo, trumpet guy, bravo.