It’s a rainy day. Rainy days tend to be ruminative for me. It’s because the forbidding weather prevents outdoor sojourns, except in the case of necessity, and it leaves a lot of idle time indoors during which the wheels spin and spin some more.

Looking at my “home” page on Shitbook (I’m loath to mention the comination of visage and reading material for fear of giving the dreck a reverse plug. As much as I’m used to using it, I still revile the obnoxious and oft insipid, growing colony of bacteria-like narcissism), I saw the post of my misanthropic rant about a cross-dresser and a sad-sack twerp who was just shy of public masturbation.

I rarely take the time to look any deeper than what people present in public and form my perceptions on what I see; I use the immediate picture. I don’t think that’s so strange … in fact, I imagine it to be quite common. First impressions are just that.

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I mentioned the old, hideous, bat-shit crazy dude who was wearing a dress on the train the other day. Here’s the photo I took. But as I recounted the encounter, I remembered there was another freak on that train near to whom I had the great misfortune to sit.

Picture a short, flabby, unattractive man. The kind of man most people would assume still lives with his mother and hasn’t seen a pussy since he was squeezed out for the first time. He was strange and odd and he held in his hands a book by the unapologetic skank who subjected humanity to ‘Sex and the City.’

The book’s title was something to do with one-night stands. Obviously a book written by a slut for sluts or at least women who are not sluts but wish to live vicariously through one. Either way it breaks down, it’s chick-lit … and this sad-sack schmuck was reading it while licking his lips like he’d been sat down before a full-course meal after starving for a lifetime.

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I hate khaki pants. It’s not an objective decision; they just offend me. In their original form, they are a bland color. Their cut is never flattering, especially to women who have asses.

They bring to mind images of entitled preparatory school children, flouting rules and date-raping girls while the interest on their trust funds accrues. Couple one with a blue blazer and it’s like waving a red cape at a bull to me.

If I had Tourette’s — and yes, I know I’m borderline — I would shout: “Goddamned, fucking cocksucking piece-of-shit motherfucker, fucking blue blazer khaki bullshit creep fuck!”

As for leopard print. Ladies. Please. Stop. It’s not sexy. It won’t make you sexy. It makes you look tacky and cheap and, in most cases, it’s an advertisement of that very truth about you. Next time, just wear a sign that says “I’m a cheap skank with no fashion sense.” We’ll interpolate the spots.

I said there would be other Crimes against Humanity, so I’ll expound on tattoos. I couldn’t care less if men have them; they’re already almost universally ugly and stupid … but when women have them, what a waste. It’s like if the Venus di Milo had a tramp stamp or a butterfly tattooed on the inside of her hip. I imagine a lot of leopard print gets worn by women with tattoos.

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