Man, I love trains.  There's almost always a beautiful girl to look at now and again when you're on a train.  When I first got on there was this blonde, my height probably, but with  heels on, so taller.  She looked great: 25, the dark grey business type, but when we sat down I could only see her face through the train seats.  Those goddam train seats with their useless, and ugly, and endless patterns.  After half an hour this other girl comes and sits right in front of me, younger but prettier than the last and I suddenly don't know where the hell to look.  This girl is blonde too, bumblebee lips and these punky little wristbands on either arm like the ones I've got on.  Maybe she'd sense a connection, I like to think I'm a punk at heart and maybe so did she.  Punks don't wear goddamn wristbands though, if you want to know the facts of the situation.
"Oi!  You starin' at my daughter?!" this older looking guy was sitting across from me.
"Is she your daughter?" I pointed.  He nodded.  Yes, that was his daughter.
Think, think quick, Bukowski could think quick, what are you as a writer if you can't think as quick as Bukowski?
"Damn man, there's some good genes in your family!"  Man, that was smooth.
"She's 14 f***king years old!"  The whole carriage was listening now and this guy was gonna start milking it.  My insides got all screwey with me just at this point, so I perked up, adversity brings out the best in me.
"Well sh*t, I guess I'm going to jail then."  I said.
"You cheeky twat.  You're f***kin' sick, mate!  You know that?"
Atleast I was honest, I thought.  I felt sorry for his daughter, she hadn't said a word.  So I went back to staring at the bland, ugly monotony of the patterened train seats and just kept waiting, and waiting, and waiting for the journey to end.