They have subways in LA…

… and, like subways all over the globe, they often function as a complex subterranean network to distribute lunatics and unhygenic people all over a metropolitan area. And such was the case this past Friday.

Now, I love cars, and own 2 vintage cars, but the combination of my cheapness and a career that mandates lots of sedentary ass-sitting have made me decide to bike and take the subway to work. Normally, the LA subways are clean, fast, and wildly under-utilized. Friday was not much different, except I managed to pick the absolute worst and most fascinating subway car to be in.

When I first entered the car, I was struck on two sensory fronts: olfactory, by the colossal jets of stink issuing from the unclad armpits of the guy next to me, almost visible if one squinted; and visually, by the gigantic 8-foot tall transvestite dressed like a 12 year old girl at summer camp. It was kind of like seeing a mighty sequoia clad in denim capris and a white shirt knotted playfully above the knothole that stood for the tree’s navel.

But for subway travel, neither of these things are that unusual. What really made the trip special was a disturbed older fellow, filthy, shaggy-haired and bearded, clad whimsically in a woman’s low front and back shirt with fur trim and a pair of slim, pocketless women’s jeans that I’m sure would be quite flattering anywhere else. What made this fellow special was his willingness to grab a big hunk of his hair, produce a lighter, and set it on fire.

His hair went up pretty well, making a nice smouldery fireball on the side of his head. In a way, I was glad he set his hair on fire in that the smell of burning hair effectively masked the armhole stank of the guy next to me, and it was, if not better, at least different. Eventually, his headfire died down, leaving a charred horn of hair in its place, and I, along with pretty much everyon else on the subway, bolted out, leaving the car to the flaming-headed loon and the massive tranny.

I love LA!

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