Take a guess at where this is:
No, it’s not the dimly-lit basement of a Thai brothel. It’s not Japan. (Too soon?)
It’s New York City.
And it’s not some long-forgotten station at the end of the line. It’s 33rd st.
Apologies, but I forgot my fucking canoe this morning.
It’s barely raining today. This is from last night. How on earth have we not figured out how to redirect this water yet? Instead we force thousands of straphangers to shimmy and jostle up the single exit that hasn’t gone all Costner on us – a 4-foot-wide stairwell with it’s own mini-puddle to triple-jump – while a second set of indignant New Yorkers shoulder bump their way down. Protected from rebuttal by their earbuds, they share their opinion about who has the right of way through angry glares and the patented quick/heavy step-around. (If you don’t know what I mean, try stopping short in the middle of a busy sidewalk or platform and you’ll see how people react.)
Oh – and this randomly happened on one of the pictures.
River of slime?
I know who to call.
Beef Supreme is Editor-in-Chief for the Idiocratic Post.