Deep from the pollen-laden bowels of a warm and, dare I say it, horny spring, a lone commuter staggers toward the bus stop. If you listen closely, you can hear said commuter muttering something about perseverance and determination. Grit, drive, the palpable weight of the world on this commuters's shoulders makes one pause, reflect upon the cruelties of the Fates.
And that commuter, ladies and gentlemen, was none other than Justin Bieber*.
But enough about Justin Bieber. Let's talk about the case of Vandal-Fighters Thumb I gave myself this morning. Distinct from the position of Litter Remover I occupy on most mornings, VFT is a little something I do on the side.
You know. For fun.
My stance on vandalism is well known in these parts: I’m against it. And there, in my three-sided, glass bus enclosure, a moron and a green felt tip pen collided in a semi-literate display of self-satisfaction.
First there was a phone number listed below the phrase “For Free Heab”. Heab? Free heab? Ladies and gentlemen, if you’re out this weekend and someone suggests the possibility of free heab, I suggest you proceed with caution.
Free heab may lead to free biseases.
I’ve rubbed it out, of course; and I have the green thumb to prove it.
I also rubbed out Taylor loves – well, we’ll never know who Taylor loves, now, will we? Both Taylor and the object of her affection have been rubbed off the bus shelter, the memory of which lies only with Taylor and my stained thumb. The script was hard to read, anyway, a convoluted series of squiggles and dots. Judging by the penmanship, however, Taylor is young and will no doubt proclaim her love for future beaux in similarly public ways.
And I will be here, sacrificing my thumb nail and skin color to rid the neighborhood of it.
* I don't know what that means. Probably nothing.