My dogs barking, having walked for hours, nearing the point of collapse, searching high and low for that mainstay of metropolitan rest, I spy a cast iron armrest around a corner, but inevitably find the last bench in the city to be occupied by a bronze bench-hog.
“Hey, George Hamilton, why don’t you move it along already.”
Okay, these are old people, but that bench is big enough for at least one more person. Skootch.
When they do leave enough room, they are busy having an intimate moment. Do know how awkward it feels to sit down to something like this?
Oh, I still do it, mind you. Every mother wants more for her son than to be a bus driver. But the place for that talk is at home.
Here’s the worst though, the bench hog who leaves room, but dresses really creepy and puts his arm over the backrest.
“Yes, yes, come and snuggle up to ole Death.”
Here, this guy gives you a little room, but look at the hostile body language: arms crossed, head and torso twisted slightly away. He acts like you’re a filthy, syphilitic leper just for contemplating sitting next to him.
“What makes you so much better than me, Mr. Anton Hansen Tammsaare?… Oh, the fact that they put a statue of you up for eternity in a prominent public park… Touché, well-played, Tammsaare, well-played.”
I’ll save the topic of all the bronze nudists for another occasion. Yes, we get it that you have an awesome tan and metallic abs, but no one wants to see Wee-Willy-Winky while they’re eating their sub sandwich.