Bastard Cabbies

This is an exact e-mail sent to me by the wonderous Johannah Lane, the Irish lass pictured here with her hubby, all gussied up for Halloween as Pride and Prejudice and Zombies:

"Hello my sweet,
Why is it that none of the cab drivers I encounter are anything like the lovely peeps I met at your book launch? I was just crossing the street and a cab kept coming, even though I had the walk; I went around to the drivers window and told him that it was dangerous and that I had the right of way. He said, "You're already dead."

Charming!"

My answer: Because some people suck.

Story: Puking on chicks gets you nowhere

John Faulk’s story as a passenger: I’m from Long Island, and I’m Irish. It was the disco years, and I was out in New York with my Italian friends. And was 20 years old and drunk. We were at a club, and they were so smooth with the chics. When they were 12, they would hit on your mother. I was not smooth, but at this club I actually started up a great conversation with this cute brunette. And she was Irish, too!

She invited me back to Jersey, saying let’s get a cab. I was just so drunk, and in the cab, we started making out. I really liked her. And then I just projectile vomited on her as we went into the Holland Tunnel. It was bad. The driver had to turn around inside the tunnel. It was so awkward.

We went back to the club, and my friends – who were really happy for me – were outside of the club with their dates. They all had giant 80s hair. And they see her covered in vomit. It was so bad, they didn’t even bother teasing me.

I gave the cabbie money to take her home and clean up the puke. And then I went to Penn Station alone and went home. I never heard from her again, but if she reads this, I want to say that I’m so sorry.

(photo by Antonin Kratochvil)