Subpar service. Overpriced tickets. Constantly delayed trains. Riding the Long Island Fail Road each day is bad enough without the conductors who think they should be sports announcers or radio DJs and regularly subject helpless commuters to their lame squawking and curious pronunciations of towns.
Picture it: A busy peak train in the evening. You've just settled into one of the tiny seats when a Two Ton Tessie plops down next to you and her generous thigh and ass fat oozes over the line onto your side of the seat. Crushed between a fleshy thigh and a filthy window that hasn't been washed since the Pleistocene Era, you somehow manage to fish the buds to your Ipod out of your pocket and pop them in your ears with much difficulty. As you scroll through the music selections searching for a tune that will transport you mentally from this Living Hell, suddenly there's a deep booming from above that sounds like the voice of God. If the voice of God was really fucking annoying. "This is the train to ...(Dramatic pause)... Raaaaaan-KANK-aaa-maaaaaaah! Once again, this is the train to Raaaaaan-KANK-aaa-maaaaaaah!"
Douchebag: It's pronounced Ronkonkoma. There is no need to stretch out each syllable. There is no need to put extra emphasis on certain other syllables. There is no need to take 30 seconds to pronounce the entire word. By this point, since we are trapped between the dirty, bird-poop stained window and some freak who looks like she could appear on the TLC show "I Didn't Know I Was Pregnant," we are captive. And since we are in captivity, what you are doing is torture. Forget waterboarding. The Bush Administration should have simply used LIRR conductors at Gitmo to get detainees to reveal all their secrets.
Lest you think you're safe on another line, such as Babylon, take note: The conductors there love to shout, "Maaaaaaah-saaaah-pequa, pequa, pequa, peeeeeequaaaaah!"
Listen, I get it. You failed at the game of life and are now resigned to wearing fugly polyester pants and clicking a hole puncher day in and day out. Not my problem. So the next time you get in touch with your inner DJ, this will be my response: "Fuuuuuu-uuuuuck-uck-uck-uck-uck yooooooooou." You're not the only one who can come up with annoying pronunciations.
