Batter Up

I understand the purpose of turnstiles, I do. I have the greatest appreciation for the ones that exist solely for counting purposes. There is something about knowing the approximate number of people who pass by a certain point that I find interesting. Like when you work in a big secure corporate building you think, “wow 583 other chumps came to work earlier than me.”

In my office building, modern day electronic turnstiles exist as an alleged security measure. They are designed with two arms which meet in the middle and separate by swinging open when your ID clears. Sometimes they swing back before you can get through. On more than one occasion I’ve been assaulted by the “crotch bats” (as called by rtb). I never learn and am never amused.

On the other hand, it’s quite entertaining to see someone else suffer the consequences of being stopped dead in their tracks, pelvis first.


To the cutie who got nailed by the turnstile for the 1/9:

Your sheepish look back while you slid your metro card through again made you all the cuter. Too bad you weren’t looking when I fogged up the car window with my minty fresh breath and wrote my number in it.