(Photo: Found in April at the Morton Arboretum. Best. Signpost. Ever.)
Every now and then in my downtown Chicago life, I overhear something so ridiculous (yes, even more ridiculous than a Children’s Museum in a cave), that I wonder whether I should blog it. This time, I just can’t help myself.
Heading back downtown on the L from lunch in Chinatown on Sunday, these two characters plopped down in the window seat next to me. Dressed in Cubs regalia, two frattish guys on their way to watch the Cubbies pummel Pittsburgh 8-0. I thought they’d be confused since construction was causing the Red Line to “go over the top” along the elevated into the Loop instead of diving down into the subway. But they had more pressing problems to talk about, and they were obviously unconcerned about the potential presence of nosey Internet scribes.
As Kathy Griffin would say, listening to these two felt like a little gift from Jesus (and, boy, am I glad I figured out how to blog on my iPhone two weeks ago). In the spirit of CTA Tattler‘s “Overheard on the CTA”, I give you a prime example of why your friends should take your SIM card away from you when you’re drunk, along with your car keys…
“She’s never gonna come out tonight, now.”
“What the hell did you do last night?”
“She’s not answering her cell at all.”
“I thought you left the party and went home, bro.”
“Did I look like I could freakin’ drive?”
“Didn’t Julia drive you home?”
“She didn’t know where I was–I can’t remember seein’ her at all last night.”
“Dude, she was at the party.”
“You don’t remember? You dropped a drink on her, for Chrissakes!”
“Oh crap. Oh crap. I remember. Oh crap.”
“What the hell did you do?”
“I slept in my car–I woke up with my cell in my hand.”
“That’s never a good sign.”
“I think I called her, man. I was blind drunk and I think I called her and said…some stuff.”
“You’re so screwed, man. What the hell did you say to her? What are you doing? Who are you calling now?”
“…Hello, Julia? Don’t hang up when you get this. Listen, I’m sorry about last night. I think maybe I called you. If I did and I said anything naughty, or aggressive, or you know, sexual, like wanting you to rub the phone on your private parts while you were listening to the message, I’m sorry. It wasn’t my fault, you know I was drunk off my ass from the party. I love you. I wanna see you tonight, honey. Call me.”
“…Dude, get outta my L car.”
Michael Thaddeus Doyle
I'm a NYC-native, Latino, Jew-by-choice, hardcore WDW fan in Chicago with an Irish last name. I believe in social justice, big cities, and public transit. I do nonprofit development. I've written this blog since 2005. Believe in the world you want to live in.