An Open Letter To The Taxi Driver Who Talks Way Too Much About His Bird

Good Day Mister Taxi Driver,

The moment I hailed you, 60-year old elderly taxi driver who doesn’t look like he can harm a fly, I thought I was going to have a nice and quiet ride home. You see, I had a long day at work, and to top it off, I was drunk and tired. All I needed on the one hour ride home was some peace and quiet and possibly a taxi driver awake enough to not crash into a tree and kill the both of us. I’m not asking for too much.

And then, you had to show up and ask me about my weight. I’m not exactly the fittest person around. I know my stomach’s the size of a small calf, but I don’t really discuss my weight with a total stranger. So I just gave the most strained polite smile I can muster, put my earphones on, and played my loudest music on full volume.

I don’t know how my actions couldn’t spell out “FUCK YOU, LEAVE ME AND MY GUT ALONE.” You started talking about how, at 60, you were still in good shape, and how your exercising has given you psychic powers. Psychic powers. Then I get a detailed history of your life and your mother’s life as well before you were born. All this time I stared at you with a painful mix of a smile and grimace, contemplating the best way to shut you up. But I kept on giving you that smile that said “PLEASE STOP I DON’T WANT TO HEAR MORE OF YOUR STORIES” as you kept on talking about your childhood as you barely missed crashing into a car for the fifth time tonight because you were so engrossed with nostalgia.

Then you start talking about your penis.

I sat, in shocked silence, as you talked about its majestic splendor. If there’s anything I do not care to know about elderly men, it’s how big their penises are and how much they love it so much. I mean, old people are supposed to be frail and weak and suffering from erectile dysfunction, not sex machines with penises towering way above our heads that us normal young people are supposed to walk away in shame.

I wonder what made you do it, old man who likes to talk about his penis too much. I am but a random stranger who does not like to think of the penises of the people I meet. No, scratch that, I don’t like to think about the penis of ANYONE. But no, you just went on rambling on, talking about how you have three women worshiping your thick, vein-covered, white-haired, purple-headed god as I was fantasizing opening the car door and diving head first into the cement and hopefully cracking my skull open.

As we reached my home, I threw a couple of bills at you and ran the fuck out of the cab without getting my change lest I get money you’ve wiped on your dick. You have won this round of battle of wills, mister taxi driver who likes to talk about your penis.

Hoping I never run into you again,
Ade