IT SURE AS HELL BETTER NOT BE CALTRAIN
Those readers familiar with my poem "It Will Be a Train" know that I value a fresh-smelling public restroom. Well, Saturday I took the Caltrain from my hotel just south of downtown San Mateo to San Francisco proper. While I enjoyed the forty-minute jaunt, perched on the upper tier of the double decker train car, I must object to the stench that emanated from the WC below.
It was a particularly rank brand of rancid piss, so strong that I had to choke back dry heaves at least thrice while trying to keep my aim true - yes, I actually had to use these facilities myself - through watering eyes. Mission accomplished (somehow), I repaired back to my seat on the upper deck.
Moments later I spied a middle-aged couple of German tourists (you can tell by the sandals) entering the same restroom together, where they remained for a good twenty minutes. What the frig?
It was a particularly rank brand of rancid piss, so strong that I had to choke back dry heaves at least thrice while trying to keep my aim true - yes, I actually had to use these facilities myself - through watering eyes. Mission accomplished (somehow), I repaired back to my seat on the upper deck.
Moments later I spied a middle-aged couple of German tourists (you can tell by the sandals) entering the same restroom together, where they remained for a good twenty minutes. What the frig?
posted by Steve Caratzas at 1:55 AM
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2 Comments:
8mm Travelogue Shiza Flick in the making?
Since I am at least one-half German, and the three people I've loved more than anyone my whole life - my mom and her parents - are 100 percent German, I have every right to say this: Germans are fucked up. My ancestors left that country expressly because of their distain for the smell of hobo piss, an aroma many Germans savored, and apparently still do to this day.
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