Death by Elevator Muzak

I hope I never have one of those voices on the train that no one wants to listen to. You know exactly the cacophony I'm talking about. it's roughly three hours since you magicianed your way into bed but by the grace of God and a Jamaican cabbie named Francois, and now you're turning around with bloodshot eyes still smelling smoke in your hair and whiskey between your unshowered, sandaled toes. And then, after an arduous white-knuckled battle to make it to the train, you secure a seat and are immediately rendered helpless by the go-getter, Southern-drawled miscreant across from you on the already over-crowded train. Unwillingly, you are resigned to listen to her outline the details of her eggshell wedding dress and commiserate over the glory days of her Cotillion dress that she'll never fit into ever again.

This is not hell, exactly, but it's a pretty good approximation.

This babbling Southern belle has even her best friend staring down the walls of the train in search of the emergency brake, valiantly trying to obscure her yawning into the sleeve of her dress while feigning interest in yet another in a series of mind-blowingly banal recollections of the latest meeting with the wedding caterer and another lament over how this brat's fiance will simply never understand the importance of a well-thought out seating chart.

Little does this halfwit know that her "best friend" is dying inside because she slept with said fiance after a wild night in college where she let her hair down and karaoked "Mustang Sally" at full tilt at a Hooters in Indiana. For as much as said friend has tried to eat her way to bottom of a bucket of buffalo wings and swilled countless Genny Lights in an attempt to ease the pain of potentially hurting her friend, she secretly eats and drinks to rationalize why this twerp gets to get married while she's stuck at her administrative desk sneaking peeks at who recently viewed her online dating profile. Sorry, JockJammer39, she may be desperate, but not that desperate.

The only thing that can possibly increase the heat on this inferno in which you find yourself is when some mongoloid tourist even more touched than this girl makes their way onto the train and recognizes that shrill accent as "home" and asks for directions. From one fanny pack to another, an interrogation that should have lasted 30 seconds is now the soundtrack from Harlem to Brooklyn. Death by elevator muzak would be sweeter.

Where is Francois? Sweet, sweet Francois? Apathetic, muted, silent Francois!