Getting on the tRain...

Bobamaush took the 6:45 train into Warchington on a rainy Thursday. The train smelled like Pepto Bismo and fresh newspapers. All around him stood the failed, weak and obese business men of the Pentagon, the White House and the Senate. Congressmen conversed with each other in muffled, garbled, unrecognizable sound patterns. Eyes darting, he inhales and takes note of the emergency exits. Bobamaush flings his fresh new presidential smell in a whoosh past the mounds of soon to be corpses and bounds through the glass of the western exit. CRASH! Bobamaush tucks and rolls with the grace of wide receiver to safety. "This is going to be a long day" thinks Bobamaush....