You ever get trapped next to somebody so foul, so repugnant, so cosmically wrong, you start questioning your own existence?

That was me…
Sat next to a moist, twitching flesh pile named J-Tard.

That’s not a nickname — that’s the entire warning label.
No one with that name should be allowed near a power outlet, let alone other human beings.

He rolls in wearing a soupy wig on a chair that looks like it lost a bet.
Not a wheelchair — oh no, this was a chair-chair. An office chair. Like he committed to defeat.
And he’s got this look — like he’s better than you, even though he smells like a microwaved diaper and has a fungal Civil War going on in his lap.

You try not to look, but he wants you to. He spins in circles, making racecar noises, like a toddler possessed by the ghost of a used gym sock.
Then he leans over and says something like:

>“I’m numerically superior. I give little boys sexual awakenings. Real men understand speed and mass.”

Buddy… I don’t care if you’re 9 feet tall with lasers for nipples — if you smell like fermented regret and argue with your own chair, you don’t get to brag.

And what the hell is this obsession with numbers?
This guy’s talking macros, iron intake, blood type, shoe size, latitude and longitude — like he’s a goddamn Pokémon stat screen dripping down the upholstery.

Meanwhile I’m over here praying for a derailment, a lightning strike, anything that’ll end this ride and cleanse the airspace around him.

He calls himself “based.”
You know what used to be based? Soap. Try it sometime.

Bottom line:
If you sit next to a man who leaks, spins, jerks his little dick to kids, and thinks being a delusional slimeball is a philosophy —
You’re not commuting.
You’re surviving.