But Mommy! I want the one with drugs in its belly!

Okay, I'll admit I have a problem with corduroy in general, but this guy was clothed head to toe in brown corduroy, the exact same brown corduroy, and it infuriated me to no end. In fact, I was originally sitting in the seat you see him in now, but his furry brownness encroached upon my periphery until my thoughts narrowed to a singular fixation upon the question of what on earth would possess someone, not merely to dress themselves in homogenous corduroy, but to purchase a pair of pants and a jacket, not a suit, but loose fitting crummy clothes of the exact same brown corduroy and then wear it together? Someone with something wrong with them, that's who.

And if the visual offense weren't grave enough, the lousy bastard was tall, meaty, and loose in his seat - such that when the train came to a halt, he freely shifted his body and his weight with the force of the train, pressing up against me until it settled to its stop, shuffing him back those few inches to where he was before. Oh, how I hated his oozy seat etiquette and his disturbing clothes. (Interestingly enough, the shoes and socks didn't bug me. It just figured he'd be wearing shoes and socks that looked like that.)

That's when I stood up with as much irritation as I could convey without audibly exhaling (a petty and artless tactic if ever there was) and started taking his picture. I took 4. I wanted to tempt the odds with this one, that he might occasion to look up at my phone pointed right at him, a smirk upon my insitgating face. "Are you taking my picture?" he would ask, fully prepared to give me the pounding I probably deserved. "No, just playing Q-Bert," I would reply. "That Coily thinks he can trap me, but I always manage to give him the switcheroo." And then I would take another, and have a hearty chuckle.