This is the Penn Station I walked into when I got off the train this morning.
For those of you who are unfamiliar with Penn Station, don’t be deceived by this immaculate oasis. The real Penn Station is a filthy pit of despair where rats and cockroaches go to die and working schlubs who can’t afford to live in the city waste away, praying for a train that will never come and job that will make it all worth it. (And sometimes they drink beer out of a paper bag.)
So obviously, I immediately thought—Great! I time travelled. Which really pissed me off because Goddamn it! It’s the future and I’m STILL commuting into this shithole every day. Crap! How old am I? I need a mirror. I better not have turkey neck! Thanks, Costco, for calling my attention to that horrific thought.
Then I was like: I wonder if Costco is still around? Surely, as a society, we must have finally made it through that 1000-gallon jar of relish by now. Which probably means we’ve also made it through that 1000 count pack of hotdogs too, because what the hell else are we putting relish on?
Speaking of hotdogs, I wonder what happened to that dude who always begs me for a quarter to get something to eat? I really want to know where the hell this guy is getting anything to eat in New York City for a quarter? I paid $4.50 for a Vitamin Water the other day! Maybe he’s just bad at Math. Poor guy. I get it. I should bring him some relish.
HOLY SHIT! In the future, we end the hunger crisis with endless supplies of Costco condiments. Because let’s be honest, hamburgers, French fries, onion rings, tater tots… they’re all just vehicles for ketchup. Right?
My next thought was to call Tom… at work. Because that mother f’er better answer! God help him if I’m the one who’s still commuting every day. Then again, if he’s not at work then maybe he’s figured a way out of this pathetic commuter life. Maybe I’m just here checking on one of our luxury rental properties and I took the train to trick the “regular” people into thinking that I’m just like them. Fools! Yes, that must be why I’m wearing these shitty Target clothes. Don’t answer. Don’t answer. Don’t answer.
He answered. What a dick. After 20 minutes (and a really confusing conversation about turkey neck and some massive Penn Station renovations that were recently finished) he finally helped me navigate my way back to 2017. As I breathed in the hot stench of ass and dead rodents, I knew I was home. Then I heard someone ask, “Excuse me? Do you have a quarter so I can get something to eat?” I tossed him a ketchup packet instead because, you know, I’ve seen the future.
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