From Portland, Oregon: "A Heart of Pharmaceutical Grade Purity," by nicareeno

I swear, the nearly silent battleweariness that fills a Max train in the morning sometimes makes me wish Bob Hope would come back from the grave and do a set for the troops.

But there I was, and there we all were, not a spark of life in the whole car, except for one guy.  The situation was hopeless, the phenomenal sameness, the extraordinary absence of contact among riders.  Except for this one loose deuce.

(Read more here.)