An Open Letter To The Long Island Railroad (You Suck)

LIRR, get your shit together.

You have one job: get me from point A to point B. And you really, really suck at it.

It would be faster to walk home at this point. A pedicab would be a more reliable (and comfortable) mode of transportation.

The people in my car are starting to bond like captives being held in a prison basement. Like in every hostage situation, there are the hopeful ones. God bless their souls. They smile and try to socialize and happily sip their train beer (which I am wishing I had invested in). There are those who provide empathetic “doesn’t this suck” glances and shoulder shrugs. And then there are those who do not speak to anyone, and appear as though they are definitely capable of murder. Guess which group I belong to.

This is a joke. This has GOT to be a joke. Ashton Kutcher is lurking somewhere in this crowd of sweaty assholes ready to surprise me with a camera crew and assurance that this type of hell exists only in elaborate TV pranks.

And so begins the round of “Hey I’m going to be late” phone calls. Each beginning with an exasperated sigh and an inflection that indicates that the human on the other end is in no way surprised and has heard this shit before. I wouldn’t be surprised to learn that restaurants on Long Island take reservations with a 30 minute grace period to accommodate your notorious fucking nonsense.

Thank God I don’t have a social life and am merely going home to immediately take my pants off and watch Parks and Recreation. But DAMMIT I would like the window of time between work ending and this happening to be AS SHORT AS HUMANLY POSSIBLE.

All smartphones are out, which is no different from any other train ride, except that this time I can be sure that there are about a thousand tweets being composed about how much you suck. Hashtag bite me.

I hope you are proud of this reputation you have built for yourself. I hope you look in the mirror and are ashamed of the face that looks back at you.

I will also be sure to send you my medical bills, since I am certain that my back is now permanently disfigured as a result of the way I have been forced to stand for the past hour. What address shall I use again? 101 Dickhead Lane? Satan’s Butthole, USA? Great. I’ll get that out ASAP.

I will begrudgingly see you tomorrow morning, in less than 12 hours, if you are actually on time. I won’t hold my breath.

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