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| The first thing I saw when I got on the train Friday was a poster of a man in a fursuit. He was supposed to be Rudolph, I guess. |
| The only seat available was sitting directly across from the poster. |
| Next was this gigantic woman who was begging for food money. |
| Kansas couldn't make enough food to feed me! |
| The best was left for last. This old man came on claiming he was blind. |
| You don't beleve me? Well, let me show EVERYONE my empty eye sockets! Feel free to vomit! |
| Men in fursuits, rude beggars, children screaming in horror. That's my commute. |
| Then my boss has the gall to suggest I have a bad attitude at work. |
The problem I have with fursuits is not about the people who wear them; it's that they bring to mind that infamous episode of CSI: where they arrest the guy in the pink pussycat suit. That reminds me that only the original CSI: series is popular. And why is it the only one that's popular? Because everyone is trying to figure out what kind of a perv Grissom is; he's so nonchalant in the face of furries, vampires, and BDSM aficionados that his personal kink must be incredibly bizarre. That's how my mind usually works.
But staring at the fursuit poster starts my brain off on a different tangent this time. I remember CSI:, remember that Grissom is a lapsed Catholic, remember the episode where the boy with bone marrow cancer killed his sister so that she couldn't donate marrow to him so he could die, the reason being that suicide was not an option on his part because he was Catholic; the end result is a long and depressing internal dialogue on the morality of suicide.
Then at least one commuter will board to remind me that things could be much more worse.
So yeah, I'm usually a little down by the time I reach work.