I hate broccoli. I consider it to be one of the most disgusting food items. Unfortunately I have bad broccoli karma.

When my boss told me I was going to be moving desks to be closer to my group, I was excited. I would have left the company on the spot if he would have told me that the guy sitting next to me would be eating steamed broccoli at his desk multiple times a day. I secretly hoped the guy would be fired. And when I say ’secretly’ I mean I loudly complained that it should be legal to fire people for having smelly food. Luckily for me, everything worked itself out when my group moved to its permanent home on the 20th floor.

As I type this my bad broccoli karma is striking again. Since Kat is out of town once again, I’m on my way to AC for the day. Getting on the crowded bus, I spot a seat next to an old lady. She’s thin and sitting in the aisle seat, so I opt to sit next to her. Before the bus even leaves the terminal, she opens the lid on a homemade concoction whose primary ingredient is cooked broccoli. It is too late for me to move now. All the seats are taken so I get to practice holding my breath for the next thirty minutes.

Eventually she finishes her meal and falls asleep, with her arm hanging over the armrest. I hope she dies, not just because of the broccoli or even the armrest (though those are good enough reasons), but because I have yet to watch anyone die and I’ve been living in New York for almost a year. I’ve watched enough Law and Order to know this is uncommon. Plus I’m looking for an interesting story to talk about in my comedy routine.

I’ll take a window seat on the flight to hell please; and do you think there will be enough room in the overhead storage for my stuffed dog?