Open Letter to the Girl Whose Ass I WASN'T Staring at on the Green Line
Okay, first of all, I didn't have anything to read. I had the friggin' Globe in my hands when I headed out, but I finished it off at the station and foolishly dropped it in the barrel. So I'm left in that netherworld of avoiding eye contact with all the twisted, babbling goons around me as I sit basically staring straight ahead.
As you might recall, when you got on, I did offer you my seat. You declined, and proceeded to turn and position your ample hindquarters in my direct line of vision. So direct, in fact, the only way to NOT look at your arse would have been to either swivel around and face the 90-year-old trout fisherman sitting next to me [yes, the same guy who kept announcing to us all that he had every episode of "Match Game 78" on tape], or crane my neck to inspect the car ceiling. Which I did.
But I was cool with this. Until you turned around and gawked at me as if I was trying to swipe your purse. So you "harumph" and push your way to the other side of the car, and suddenly I'm the official pervert of the 10:15. Thing is, though, I was innocent. Yes, your ass was spectacular and hypnotic and under any other circumstances (say, had I met you in a bar, the laundromat, or Spooky World) I'd have carved out my own eye-teeth just to press my hands to it. But I wasn't staring at it. Not this time.
Okay, yeah, I'm the guy who once equated the T to a cheap feel paradise. And, sure, everyone on that train will no doubt be sitting at the dinner table talking all about the big Irish doof who basically undressed this poor young lass with his sinister eyes. But I stand comfy in the knowledge that it simply wasn't so.
Also: great ass, whoever you are.
As you might recall, when you got on, I did offer you my seat. You declined, and proceeded to turn and position your ample hindquarters in my direct line of vision. So direct, in fact, the only way to NOT look at your arse would have been to either swivel around and face the 90-year-old trout fisherman sitting next to me [yes, the same guy who kept announcing to us all that he had every episode of "Match Game 78" on tape], or crane my neck to inspect the car ceiling. Which I did.
But I was cool with this. Until you turned around and gawked at me as if I was trying to swipe your purse. So you "harumph" and push your way to the other side of the car, and suddenly I'm the official pervert of the 10:15. Thing is, though, I was innocent. Yes, your ass was spectacular and hypnotic and under any other circumstances (say, had I met you in a bar, the laundromat, or Spooky World) I'd have carved out my own eye-teeth just to press my hands to it. But I wasn't staring at it. Not this time.
Okay, yeah, I'm the guy who once equated the T to a cheap feel paradise. And, sure, everyone on that train will no doubt be sitting at the dinner table talking all about the big Irish doof who basically undressed this poor young lass with his sinister eyes. But I stand comfy in the knowledge that it simply wasn't so.
Also: great ass, whoever you are.
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