God, I fucking hate people who walk and read something and don’t look where they’re going. This may be an epidemic local to a big city, like New York, and not those of you out in the heartland places like Boise, Idaho or Fort Collins, Colorado, or Ames, Iowa.
If so, wipe your knees off, get down on them, and thank fucking God.
These people … these fuckin’ people … good holy Christ. I may – I may, if the planets align, and someone gives me a cookie, and a big bottle of beautiful, expensive, yummy whiskey ends up on my bed – excuse the people reading a magazine. I get it. The New Yorker is fucking engrossing. Fine. I love Roger Angell as much as anybody. You started that article on the new regime in Kryzbekistan, or that one about the Large Hydron Collider just a few minutes ago. You want to finish it. Ok. Fine.
But you assholes – you goddamn wastes of fucking skin, you soulless degenerates birthed solely for the purpose of selling more shiny things – that read a fucking book, a goddamn Harry Potter novel or some mid-20s “Eat, Pray, Love” bag of repulsive, bound-for-paperback donkey shit, you have a special section of hell reserved for you.
It will involve a 19-foot, flaming, spiked club penetrating you through the anus, the ear, and twice through a hole in the throat.
And there will be 27 people waiting behind them, eagerly awaiting their turn to get by the person in front of them.
WHY IS THAT FUCKING BOOK SO IMPORTANT TO YOU? DO YOU NOT REALLY HAVE A LIFE? CAN IT NOT WAIT 10 MINUTES UNTIL YOU GET ON THAT BUS FILLED WITH SEVERAL OTHER SAD, LONELY PEOPLE? IS PAGE 148 REALLY THAT FUCKING SPECIAL?
God damn, choke on a pipe bomb. Fuck you, read-walkers. Die in a grease fire.