This is probably the last thing I can think of wanting to endure bright and early on a Monday morning:
But so it happened, this morning, for me, and about 50 others, in my car on the Purple Line this morning. I had great train luck: the Red came just as got onto the platform at Loyola Ave., and I didn't have to wait long at all for the Purple Line to come when it was time to change trains. I even got a seat, which is unheard of at Belmont in the morning, so I could read my new Elizabeth Taylor biography. Yes. And then I heard it. A screaming, shreiking, baby. Or at least I thought it was a baby, because for the entire 20 minute ride downtown I never saw what was actually making the noise. The look of horror was on every single face on that train, including my own, because we had to endure this constant, shrill, ear-piercing, screaming and carrying on at 7:30 on Monday morning. It was honestly the loudest noise I have ever heard in my entire life. I thought I was going to DIE. Wake up! Time to open your eyes! Time to start your day off with a major, ear splitting headache! And then I heard the "baby" wailing something about orange juice. In my mind, an infant crying is somewhat excusable. Mothers deserve a lot of respect, and I think people are more forgiving with mothers dealing with a screaming newborn. But when was the last time you heard a newborn ask for orange juice in plain, teary-eyed English? Seriously? Really?? But if it's clearly a toddler just being a little brat, then you spank that little shit and get off the train. At least that's what I would do.
What Joe Ricketts Really Meant
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