If you live in New York and aren’t ridiculously wealthy, you’ll have to get used to riding the subway. It’s a sad fact. Now, normally the subway isn’t that bad; hell, in the summer an air conditioned train can actually be a reprieve from the swamp that is Manhattan.
But there is one time when riding the subway is vaguely reminiscent of the apocalypse: rush hour. Just like the rush hour you might experience driving in LA, before and after normal work hours are the most dreaded parts of the day to travel, and in New York you get the added terror or public transportation~! Dun dun dun.
Tonight, as I was lounging about, wearing my plaid robe and smoking my pipe (I’m very classy), thinking of what my next blog post would be about, something exciting happened. Something I will now tell you, without embarrassment.
I was lounging, as I explained, when my father burst out of the rest room, his face pale and gaunt. At first I was worried the zombie apocalypse was finally hitting Montana and not just the east coast as he stumbled to his bed, and here I was with my shotgun out of reach and not even wearing my knickers. However, as he lurched down the hall, clinging to the wall for support and weakly asking me to help him, I realized he was not a zombie but was actually just suffering from a bad flu. This was a reassurance; I could help a victim of influenza. Nurse Greg to the rescue!
A while back I read about Alec Baldwin saying 30 Rock would end in this article (which I found through IMDB–on my Facebook feed! What a wonderful world…) Now, at first I didn’t take it too seriously because Alec Baldwin is sometimes an, ahem, diva? Mayhaps?