Overheard

Guy No. 1: "How do you like the new SmartLink card?"
Guy No. 2: "I love it."

A SmartLink card is a plastic, credit-card-size train ticket that users refill by inserting it into a machine and providing payment. So, this guy was saying he loves a train ticket. What the fuck?

However, on the scale of intolerability, he pales in comparison to this lady, as reported by the Associated Press:

SAN ANTONIO — A woman charged with murdering her 3 1/2-week-old son used a knife and two swords to dismember the child and ate parts of his body, including his brain, before stabbing herself in the torso and slicing her own throat, police said Monday.

Or this guy:

CHINO HILLS, Calif. — San Bernardino County authorities say a Chino Hills man apparently killed his 7-year-old daughter and himself.

The bodies of 50-year-old Carl Jacobson and his daughter, Katie, were found around 9:30 p.m. Saturday by the man's wife when she returned home after visiting other relatives.

People are funny; one guy loves a train ticket, and some lady decapitates her baby. Next thing you know, some white singer, who used to be black, will be mourned as a victim and feted with a Staples Center gala.

They Can Have Their Cakes

Do people deliberately try to smell like urinal cakes, those porous-looking ostensible deodorizers found in men's bathrooms? I don't know if they're men or women, but if you ride public transportation enough, you're bound to encounter the aroma.
Women presumably wouldn't know what urinal cakes smell like, so they could catch a whiff of a similar fragrance, decide it's appealing and use it, even though it makes me inclined to piss. I don't know what would make men smell that way. Perhaps there's a black market for urinal cakes and people are concealing them in their pockets. If there is such a black market, I wonder if the hot-pink ones fetch a premium. I suppose there would be a pro rata system, since many of these urinal cakes would be used and partially eroded.
If people are deliberately making themselves smell this way, perhaps they should just do away with any pretense and wear them like medallions around their necks. It could start a trend and fortify urinal-cake makers.

North Jersey

North Jersey, as in New Jersey, not the Channel Islands, has a certain charm, as the apparent graveyard for aging tractor-trailers and repository for dumpsters, juxtaposed against green (at least in the summer) marshland. Graffiti is no small part of the aesthetic, a personal favorite being DETOX THE GHETTO, painted on an overpass's concrete abutment. Not to mention SAPIENS.
The color scheme is pleasing, ordinarily rust brown (the kind that results from actual oxidation) against the aforementioned greenery against a typically gray sky (which could be smokestack-related). And there's wildlife, or at least a mutt that sits outside of a warehouse door (rusted aluminum) and a forlorn pony who seems to have more or less adjusted to his ironbound sanctuary.
Occasionally the wetlands yield the concentric circles indicative of a rising fish. Kind of like life on Mars.
The vista can simultaneously yield ostensibly lush growth; airplanes; a cellphone tower; water; trucks; asphalt; billboards; unidentifiable, twisted, rusted-out heaps; power lines; barbed wires; railroad tracks; windowless buildings; pillars supporting invisible structures; and piles and piles and piles of concrete. This stretch of the so-called Northeast Corridor must be the concrete-slab capital of the world. Who is responsible for this shit?
No matter; with features so varied, only Yellowstone offers as much diversity.

Golf

Golf is my salvation. Hallelujah for all those jerk-offs out there playing that stupid game, because otherwise they might be clogging up the places where I like to fish.
And what's up with all these recreational golfers who ride in carts? Not only are you participating in something that can only loosely be defined as a sport, but you're not getting any fucking exercise. Get out and walk and carry your goddamned bag. At least those guys on TV walk, even if they do have someone else carry their clubs. And even if they do wear stupid-looking sweater vests. And the colors. And the patterns. And knickers.
Not like golfers are pretentious or anything.
At least golf courses are nice looking, and they sometimes forestall further sprawl. If only those pot-bellied fucks weren't out there spoiling the view.

Right-Hand Lane

Just a few thoughts about driving:
I know the cops don't give a shit, but slow the fuck down in residential areas.
I don't want to hear your fucking music.
Use your blinker, you douche bag, so that I don't have to read your mind and try to glean what you're doing.
Get off the phone, goddamnit. How many times do I have to say it? If i had your number, I'd call you to tell you to put the fucking phone down.
Go when the fucking light turns green,
I'm impressed, you have a Porsche. I'd be more impressed if you went when the light turned green...and got off the phone.
I'm stupefied when other drivers do something completely contrary to the rules of the road and then behave indignantly because I have the temerity to take issue with it.
If you're old, it's bad enough that you drive, but do you have to do it when you most get in the way of people who work and have limited opportunities to get shit done?
When you want to go five miles an hour under the speed limit, please get out of the left lane. That's the hammer-down lane. You copy? 10-4?
If you're going straight after the light turns green and you can do so from the left lane (there's nobody there waiting to turn left who would hold you up), why would you get in the right-hand lane and prevent me from going right on red? Because you're an inconsiderate jackass.

Bicycles

People who ride bicycles are assholes. On the asshole scale, they're only slightly less offensive than people who park right in front of the convenience-store door, where there are no parking spaces but an apparent entitlement exists granting them dispensation to occupy that real estate and inconvenience the people who park in designated spots.
In a similar vein, bicyclists evidently believe that they're entitled to the paths in the woods where I run. Come to think of it, they also appear to think that they are entitled to ride out in the middle of the fucking road. Either that or they think spandex is some kind of armor plating that will shield them from harm. Because they apparently feel entitled to wear such clothing, too, and is there any reason to other than it affords them protection and the opportunity to be an asshole? Especially in their yellow Lance Armstrong jerseys.
Now, my son rides a bike, and he's not an asshole. But, then again, we've taught him to be mannered and we haven't instilled a sense of entitlement into him because he can ride a bike. So he's like the exception that proves the rule, whatever that means. And he better not ever park his bike in front of the convenience-store door, where, obviously, he would have to watch out for the jerk-offs parking their cars there already.

Gitmo

I have a solution for the Guantanamo problem that only the bloodiest of hearts would find unpalatable. President Obama, are you listening?
I propose that we allow the prisoners to build rafts, a la would-be Cuban refugees, and have them launch those rafts into the Atlantic Ocean. The Army could even furnish them with materials to construct their makeshift vessels. There should probably be a pecking order to determine who gets to choose raft mates, and to determine where each detainee ranks, they could participate in a spelling bee, which would be educational and entertaining:

Moderator: The word is "infidel."
Detainee: Could I please have the etymology? Could you use that in a sentence?

Which is just a stalling tactic, of course, since they know damn well how to use infidel in a sentence. The spelling bee could be broadcast on Fox.
Speaking of which, the whole thing could be a reality show, from the start of raft construction to their journey (a few shark attacks wouldn't hurt ratings) to their arrival on the Florida shores, when it would get really interesting. For I also propose that those who reach Miami then be transferred to Ground Zero. The construction crews at Ground Zero could affix prison-style bars over the top of the pit where the twin towers stood, and the surviving detainees could take up residence in the pit itself. This holds myriad opportunities.
Visitors to the site would have the chance to purchase ball bearings from machines, like the ones that dispense gumballs at supermarkets, to throw at the detainees. The catch, however, is that they could throw them back. Fair is fair. The detainees also would have protection behind which they could seek refuge, like on American Gladiators. Along with that gladiator theme, I have another possible diversion, though some people might find it in poor taste: that we occasionally unleash German shepherds in the pit to interact with the two-legged inhabitants.
So this is just a winner. The purchase of the raft materials and ball bearings provides an economic boost, not to mention the tourist influx to New York. And the reality show offers entertainment and generates advertising revenue. Aside from which, it's clearly a politically palatable solution that likely would garner bipartisan support.

Canada Geese

New York recently said it would euthanize 2,000 Canada geese that frequent the vicinity of Kennedy and LaGuardia airports. The decision comes in the wake of U.S. Airways Flight 1549's January landing on the Hudson River. Federal wildlife officials also are in the process of exterminating potentially thousands of birds in New Jersey. U.S. Department of Agriculture spokeswoman Carol Bannerman told the Associated Press that a single bird excretes about a half-pound of feces daily, rendering some public parks unusable. N.J. has 80,000 resident Canada geese, about twice the density wildlife officials consider manageable, the AP reported.
Hallefuckinglujah.
I was going to suggest, at the very least, that they be deported. Back to Canada. A few years ago, some hockey-stick-wielding local kids annihilated about a half-dozen Canada geese. I wonder if anyone appreciated the poetic beauty.
Geese defecate indiscriminately. They foul lakes, soil biking/jogging/rollerblading/walking-the-baby-in-a-stroller paths and bury soccer fields under layers of excrement. Or, to put it more eloquently, they're just dirty fuckers. And I've met a number of dogs, including my own, who consider goose shit a delicacy.
And it they start bringing avian flu around, well, better if we already have begun to thin the ranks. Because then it won't be some Asian farmer living in close proximity to chickens, but it could be you at the park. Maybe Jeff Daniels can lead them away in a fucking airplane.

Helmet Law

Here's a modest proposal, and it doesn't involve eating babies: There should be a helmet law in New York, or maybe even a federal regulation, for people who walk and text simultaneously. The reason those people should be required to wear helmets is because that same law would allow me to kick them down the stairs when they're walking and texting in front of me and slowing me down. If we're going up the stairs, I should be able to grab them by the shoulders and pull them down the stairs. On the street, a kick in the back of the knee.
And there should be variations. For example, a cluster of people standing at the top of a stairway taking pictures also deserve to be kicked/thrown down the stairs. It's only right.
In a similar vein, talking on the phone while driving merits punishment. And who the fuck are all these people talking to, anyway? You are endangering yourself and, more important, me. So I wish I had a car, like Speed Racer, from which saw blades emerged. As part of this law, I would have the right to saw their fucking cars in half.
People on the train, same thing. Shut the fuck up. I don't want to hear your side of the conversation. And if you're hacking your guts up, take it somewhere else, or else...I don't know, because I don't want to get too close. Maybe Mace.
Umbrellas are another matter. If it's barely raining, put the fucking umbrella away. And when you're under cover, there definitely isn't any rain, so the only purpose the umbrella is serving is to imperil my eyesight because, when you spin around or stop abruptly, the point on the umbrella ribs swing right by my face. Punitive action for such an offense should include, but not be limited to, forced sterility. The world doesn't need any more geniuses in the gene pool walking around with umbrellas, with the possible exception of Russian operatives.

Don't Shit Where You Eat

Don't shit where you eat. I'd like to meet the genius who first held forth with this pearl of wisdom. I mean, what the fuck? I don't even think I know what this means.
In a literal sense, it should be self-evident that these two activities aren't conducive to common ground.
If you shit in the kitchen or wherever else you routinely eat, well, that would be a mess. And you could slip on the tile floor and crack your fucking head open. But what if you're eating at a restaurant? Granted, you shouldn't shit on your chair or in the booth or even under the table, but can you not use the bathroom there? If you're having a picnic in the park, you definitely shouldn't shit on the grass or in the sand or even in the water, but you could use a port-a-potty, right? Not that anyone really wants to use one of those fly traps. So you sort of are shitting where you eat. And you definitely shouldn't shit where you eat if you're at a party at somebody's house or something. If you pick up a carrot stick off the vegetable tray, get some dip on it and take a shit on the dining-room rug, well, bad manners.
And if you shouldn't shit where you eat, the converse should be true: don't eat where you shit. First of all, there are practical considerations. A toilet isn't the most comfortable accommodation, especially for having a meal. After a while, the discomfort, especially the pressure on the back of the legs, would likely make the experience less enjoyable. Combine that with having to balance a plate, utensils, napkin and drink, and the challenges multiply. You could use a tray on your lap, but if you have your napkin on the tray, instead of your lap, that could be considered a breach of etiquette. And using toilet paper instead of a napkin is just gauche. And how do you hold your reading material if there's a tray full of food on your lap? The complications are myriad.
All of these situations apply to the port-a-potty, also. Most people I know don't even want to shit in one, let alone eat in it. There's even less room than a regular bathroom, they smell worse and they're sweltering in the summer and cold in the winter.
Now, let's look at this less literally. I've heard "don't shit where you eat" most often in reference to interoffice romances. It might make some sense in that context, if shitting is having the affair and eating is collecting a paycheck. But then why is it not "don't fuck where you make money"? Unless you're a prostitute, of course, in which case you have to fuck where you make money.