Dear Shit-for-brains on the streetcar

Dear Shit-for-brains on the streetcar,

Did your husband stank up the bathroom this morning? I understand. I know how it is once you get, well, old. That acidic diarrhea juice smell gets all in your mouth and shit, and that's kinda gross. Understood.

Or maybe you ran out of time during your morning routine? I get that too. It's hard to pack all those 45 shopping bags that you carefully placed on the seat beside you. Sure.

But, with all due respect, the Spadina streetcar is not the best place to clip your nails. For one thing, what if the dude across from you, the one with the greasy stain on his pants, what if the loud snip-snip annoyed him? Reminded him of, I don't know, the circumcision the Aliens performed on him that night they beamed him up? What if he got angry, stood up, and emptied his little Ziploc of cigarette butts on you?

That wouldn't be nice.

For another thing, one of your little yellow nail ends just got stuck in my sweater. What if, nail snipper, I took it home, got your DNA mapped out, and created a clone of you? And I sent it to ride the Spadina streetcar so it could fart on you? What if I did that, eh?

I don't think you would like that. Also, I would make it eat cabbage.

So, anyways, I don't know how to say this except to be blunt: please do not clip your nails on the streetcar. You never know. And it's disgusting.

Love,
me