This smarmy crybaby in pleated trousers was just bitching so loudly because the escalator at the Shaw metro stop was “broken” yesterday. He was a grown man eating a candy bar, which is against The Subway Rules in the first place, and his too-pretty-for-him girlfriend was in those weird ballet shoes with the Neverending Story medallions on them. (Why is this a thing now?) She nodded her head in taut agreement when he said the outage was “ridiculous,” and you could tell theirs was one of those relationships with a severe pleasure imbalance in the bedroom.
It wasn’t the first time I’ve heard that sort of whining either. I’ve seen DC residents of all kinds — maybe even you! — get totally up in arms about this supposed scourge of non-working escalators. The Express, that thing you do Sudoku in and then throw in the garbage next to your desk, even had a cover story about the broken escalator problem a few months back. What? Hey, doofs, listen in: There’s no such thing as a “broken” escalator, because a broken escalator is called “stairs.” Ever heard of stairs?
I’m from Arizona, where people will only stop devouring cheese enchiladas and getting DUIs to rant about sending away the “Messicans,” so I’m quite familiar with the depths of grossness to which human beings can sink. But this is some next-level shit, and it speaks to a much bigger problem. That is, if you complain because you have to walk up and down stairs in order to access a clean, efficient, cheap, reliable, major public transportation network, you’re a jerk, and you shouldn’t be in a city. Jerks enter the train before anyone’s had a chance to get off. Jerks keep Great Danes as big as ponies in their walkup apartments even though that freaking dog needs an acre of land at least to feel sane. Jerks don’t stop talking on the phone while interacting with people in the service industry. Jerks act as if the whole world is theirs, which just doesn’t gibe with being crammed on top of one another in a major city.
All you jerks should quit bellyaching and move to some flyover grassland where everything is flat and quiet and normal-looking and convenient. You can drive your car places and, if you choose your home and restaurants carefully, you’ll never have to go up a flight of stairs again. Then, at night, you can masturbate to people’s vacation pics on Facebook before crying and going to bed, like the jerk you are.
I should have seen this sort of thing coming when all the toilets started flushing themselves. Are we truly so slothful and disgusting that our engineers must build robots to flush away our waste? Even common cats try to cover their turds when they’ve done their business. But not us, boy. Not us. We are too tired from complaining about the escalator.
Cord Jefferson’s column usually appears Thursdays on Wonkette, unless he turns it in late because he’s too busy doing a stripper pole dance on the Metro while calling everybody “jerks.” Also he is always on the Twitter.