To the thirtysomething blonde woman I met standing on the corner this morning, your chapped face gradually turning purple in the polar wind after spending over 2 hours sojourning from Jersey to the Bronx to get to work caring for physically disabled children, I salute you.
To the twentysomething lawyer churlishly shoving her aside to hail a $20 cab to his midtown corporate palace, bitching loudly into his cell phone about how the MTA workers should have their homes incinerated and their families flogged for putting him through this ordeal and costing him billable time, feel more than free to protest the strike’s grave injustice via seppuku, self-immolation, rat poison in your latte, or any other means of agonizing death. Preferably immediately.