Good morning, here’s my crotch

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As Muni Diaries has documented before, sometimes people pull out their penises and stick them in your face on the bus. OK, that just happened once (as far as we know), in one of our most popular penis-in-public posts yet.

Perhaps more often, there are more tame crotchal offenses, including crotch-on-the-shoulder guy.

As the Muni Ladies have noted before, you (well, all of us, really) must use proper crotch etiquette when you’re standing on the bus. So I don’t know who told this guy he could do the  “Sugalumps” song from Flight of the Conchords during my morning commute, but it’s just across-the-board unacceptable.

It’s pretty self-explanatory. I was sitting on an aisle seat for about 40 minutes, and was occasionally treated to a shoulder bump with this guy’s crotch. It just happened a few times, and ultimately wasn’t a huge deal, but it’s a pretty huge offense of the aforementioned etiquette rule. I don’t care how tired you are (which he demonstrated by leaning both elbows and head on the top horizontal rail, letting the rest of his body flap around like a marionette); keep track of your body or you might get woken up very, very quickly with my elbow next time.

Photo by WHAT I’M SEEING from the Muni Photos Flickr pool

Ask Muni Diaries

magic8ball_betcherasscarleighamalin from Twitter (you know her here as CAK) tweeted us the other day to ask the following:

Is it rude to FB friend someone you see on MUNI daily but dont want to actually converse with because I’m a.m. antisocial w/ ipod

We dusted off the ol’ Muni Diaries Magic 8-Ball to arrive at the following:

Facebook users tend to fall into two broad categories: Those who friend (yes, a verb, deal with it) liberally, and those who exercise restraint, thereby limiting themselves to, you know, “friends” who are people they know.

As with other internet traditions, there’s no cut-and-dried, black-and-white answer here. On the one hand, who knows what could come out of this friending, should it occur? On the other, not doing anything surely wouldn’t inhibit the possibility of, oh, say, talking to this someone in person, on the bus, if the opportunity presented itself.

And there’s always that remote possibility that your someone could be reading this right now, and know exactly who you are. And there you’ll have it.

Verdict: Go with your gut.

Visual Rapists, Thieves, and Prada

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So I’m riding the 6, heading outbound, up Haight Street when i hear this woman having a conversation. She’s young, well-dressed and wearing a pair of dark dark sunglasses. And at first she’s just talking to herself, quietly, saying things like, “I know who you are, I know who you are.” She’s repeating it over and over, rocking from side to side while doing so.

I notice peeps are starting to look around, trying to figure out who she’s talking to, maybe it’s them, maybe it’s herself, it’s tough to say because of those dark glasses. It’s then that the bus makes a stop at Divisadero and a few passengers get on. This guy in a blue button up and navy pants sits in the open seat next to the woman. I see everybody kind of look around at each other, knowing this guy just stepped on a land mine.

The bus driver closes the door and with one big jerk the bus chugs up the hill.

“I know who you are, I know who you are. ” The woman starts rocking again, but this time she turns the guy in the blue shirt and says, “Quit looking at me.” The guy looks puzzled. “What,” he says. “Quit looking at me, you think you know me? I know who you are, I know who you are,” she says.

Then the woman shifts in her seat and starts screaming at the top of her lungs, “Visual Rapist! Visual Rapist! Stop looking at me Visual Rapists!”

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Dear John

As with a number of interpersonal issues, writing a letter (with the optional step of posting it on the internet) can be a productive outlet to air one’s grievances. So …

Dearest Singing Guy on the 49 (Bus 7020),

You’re an asshat. But unlike a long line of asshats before you, you at least seem to know it.

I got on around 8 p.m. at Van Ness/Otis, that janky excuse for a block with Power Exchange on it. I only rode until 20th Street, but you actually managed to sing the whole time. But I guess god explicitly forbade you from singing something good, or even bad in a fun way. Whatever it was sounded like something my nephew would find on Barney. While you seem to be at or around the same developmental level as him (my nephew, not Barney. Well, actually…) you still looked closer to 30 than to 3. Unacceptable.

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