Fat Chance
I love the guys who stand around Grand Central, you know, the army guys with the large guns who patrol the perimeter hallways and staircases. I love how they’re in camouflage. Like there’s even a chance they’ll blend in. They should have tried dressing in a soothing taupe to match the marble, or in suits, holding a briefcase in one hand and self-importance in the other. Then they’d blend.
I know, I know, they’re intended to stick out. The camouflage isn’t for hiding in this situation. But I just know the proud guy who invented camouflage is rolling over in his grave, screaming, “You’re using it wrong! That’s not even CLOSE to what you’re supposed to use it for! Idiots.”
I’m tempted to walk toward one of these guys and harmlessly run into him, shoulder-to-shoulder, and say, “Whoa, sorry, buddy! Didn’t see you there!” But I don’t want to be the stupid bastard these guys use for target practice. ‘Cause you know they’ve been waiting forever for some train station action. Their balls must be ultraviolet by now.
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