So essentially, the enemy of my enemy is not my friend, he's just another moronic, entitled turd in the bucket.
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That would be kinda cool.
Reposting relevant parts of the letter here:
I hope that this letter finds you well. It was with great peril that I acquired the one which you sent to me. I travelled many miles from Villagerís apartment in Dorchester to Newton, then back to Dorchester for beer and barbecue (which ended up being wine and cheezits). This journey was undertaken via MBTA. Iím not certain if LMNO ever told you, but unlike other subways, the MBTA is a living but largely dormant entity that has been made docile for the purposes of transportation, not unlike the sandworms in Dune, revered as Shai-Hulud. Itís a little known fact that Herbert was inspired to write of sandworms after a particularly interesting ride from Park Street.
Some say it is a god worshiped by the Massachusett; Some say it is a demon subdued by the Freemasons for nefarious puposes; I have heard it said that it is the trapped ghost of Metacomet (though this never made sense to me); and yet others say that it is the reason why we won the Revolution. I am hoping that Villagerís infiltration of the Dorchester Historical Society will turn up valuable documents on the matter, especially after today. Whatever MBTA happens to be, it is certain that it wished to deter me from reading your letter, as the Alewife train seemed willing to throw itself off the tracks and down a hill in order to keep me from getting it. I got off at South Station to fool it and instead take the Worcester Line directly to my old abode.
Arriving at the Nepostery, Newton Branch, I read the letter immediately. Clutching the two pages, I made back for Dorchester, and MBTA was enraged. It bucked and lurched, endeavoring to throw me from my seat on the D Line and break my neck. The Ashmont train was just as intent as before when it was heading to Alewife. MBTA was roused from its slumber, and I wonder if it was the presence of something Tucsonian, forcing it to remember the ancient horrors that lay dormant beneath the surface of Bostonia, like some dreadful incantation from the NecronomiconÖ
Spirits of the Red Line, remember!
Spirits of the Green Line, remember!
Spirits of the Blue Line, remember!
MBTA, delayer of dudes, be praised!
Ia! Ia! In his house at Park Street Station, dead Charlie waits dreaming!
When people try to quantify men and women as discrete and mutually exclusive categories, I'm pretty much guaranteed that anything they say regarding this argument will be bullshit.
^ I want to go to there.