Happy Hurricane Sandy, everyone! I hope that you all get days days off (especially you American folk) and have hurricane parties and drink lots of beer. Or tequila. Whatever. But seriously, in this weather don’t make yourself a fucking liability and do dumb shit. Stay inside. Lord knows we’re going to hear about some fool-ass tomorrow anyway who decided they were bigger and “badder” than any goddamn hurricane.
Speaking of taking unnecessary risks with one’s life, that brings me to today’s topic: taxicabs.
I’m not playing. Taxis are a death trap to the next level. You’re getting into a vehicle with someone you’ve never met before. You don’t know where the dick-wad is going to take you. For all you know some serial rapist murderer could be your driver ready to fling your sorry ass into a lake. I bet most of us don’t even think to take note of the license plate just in case. That’s just too much damn risk, if you ask me.
Earlier this month I had no choice but to get a taxi to drop me at the train station because I had a hella ton of luggage to haul. The taxi showed up, the driver got out, and he looked a fucking lot like this guy:
I was only mildly sketched out because a) I’m a Torontonian and, therefore, jaded, and b) I feel like most of my taxi drivers have looked approximately at least this pedophile-like. I clambered my exhausted body into the back of the cab and sighed loudly as I buckled my seat belt, slumping over. The driver confirmed with me that he was taking me to the train station and reversed out of the driveway.
We rode along in silence for a while, which I didn’t mind because I didn’t have a burning desire to engage in conversation with some guy who looks like he would probably buy a 12 year old girl to lock in his dungeon of a basement equipped with security cameras and rope. That didn’t last long, though. This man was jumping down my throat with questions. Just my luck.
“So you’re heading back to university?” he first inquired. Standard question. No problem.
“Yeah, I’m just bringing the last of my stuff back to my apartment,” I answered like a completely normally-functioning member of society.
“Oh ok. So are you in first year… second year?”
“Haha! No, I’m actually 22. Good try, though.”
“Oh… you look young!” he said, surprised.
“Yup! Most people can’t tell how old I am. I’m ok with it.”
In my mind, the conversation was now over. Nope.
“Nice, nice. So, uh, do you got a boyfriend, then?” he asked, trying to make a really bloody awkward question as casual as possible. It wasn’t like I could go anywhere anyway; my ass was already firmly strapped into the back seat tighter than Beyoncé’s clothes, ready to be suffocated with a garbage bag and left in a dumpster.
See, creepy shit like this happens to me a lot. Dudes who were undoubtedly born in the Jurassic period try to “subtly” ask me to be their girlfriend. I would not mind so much if they did not initially think I was in high school. What the hell does that say? I attract grown men who think that fucking children is as good a life choice as applying to university. That is not only so disgusting that I want to vomit into my own mouth, it is also a great opportunity for me. How?
See, the thing is that I’ve always dreamed of starting my own television series. The show would be called Get Your Shit Together, You Perverted Sick Fuck. It would feature me living my daily life and posing as a 16 year-old. Apparently I can easily pass for that age. Then when degenerates talk to me, I’d call the cops on their worthless asses. Not only would I have my television series, I would also be able to put throbbing bags of dicks of people in jail, where they will most definitely be bum-raped.
Anyway, I experience this sort of inappropriate attention often and you’d think that I would have a well-rehearsed response such as:
Oh, yeah! I actually have a boyfriend who is named Jamaal. He’s a hulking 6’8″ and weighs well over 300 pounds. What a man! And he’s such a great pro wrestler! Usually when I go to watch his matches, I need a ladder to be able to wipe the sweat off his brow. I mean, my waist is only half the size of his biceps. Did I mention that Jamaal is just sooooo spiritual? One of his favourite pastimes is hunting wild moose and killing them with his bare hands to sacrifice to the Brazilian Orixàs of Candomblé. He smears their blood on a drum and pounds his chest as he ferociously howls. He told me he does this particular tribal ritual to keep me safe from harm’s way. Isn’t that just SO sweet of him, looking out for me like that with the gods? I love him so much!
Like I said. Taxis are a precarious life experience. I need to find me a Jamaal for real.