Friday, July 25, 2025

Trenitalia Hates Its Passengers (except Executive): An Open Letter to Trenitalia

Last night I was returning from Milan to Venice, where I am spending two weeks' vacation, on your train Frecciarossa #9757. The direct road was blocked by your police, who had the brilliant idea to investigate an accident for hours without any regard for the fact that the trains need to go through. Train #9757 was then rerouted via Bologna, which was an acceptable solution to me (second only to my preferred solution of abolishing the state, including the police and your state run railroad, and introducing Anarcho-Capitalism, with the trains going through being prioritized over any investigations by the then private security companies, no matter what accident or crime remains unsolved, but I digress). 

At Bologna, the conductor of train #9757 (hereinafter conductor #1) had the brilliant idea to tell her passengers to Padua and Venice to "forget tickets" and to transfer to train Frecciarossa #9434, which was going directly to Padua, bypassing Verona, so we'd get back with an hour less delay. I was in no hurry to return to Venice, as long as I got back at some point last night. In hindsight, I should have stayed on train #9757, where at least I had an assigned seat, but I figured the conductor knew what she was doing and took her advice. Of course, giving adequate information in Italian and in English was difficult in the hurry, but conductor #1 at least should have warned me that in return for getting home faster, I'd be literally treated like cattle. 

In retrospect, it's never going to end well if a petty official tells you to forget your documented rights. They're not going to give you anything extra. They'll only take away what you had. 

Train #9434 turned out to be moderately crowded already, so there weren't enough seats for all the newcomers. I ended up finding a vacant seat in the executive car. 

I should add that your executive seats are nothing to write home about. Granted, they recline and swivel, but otherwise they are, if anything, less comfortable than your business class seats, probably because they need to be adjusted, which I didn't bother to figure out under the circumstances and because I didn't want to interfere with your equipment any more than necessary, as I hadn't paid for its use. I had considered booking executive for my trip to Milan, but for some reason business was the highest class your system offered me for both outward and return. Maybe they were all booked, or maybe one needs to have special connections to be allowed to book one of those sacred seats of yours? The behavior of the conductor of train #9434 (hereinafter conductor #2) certainly seemed to suggest that much. Are they reserved for the pope and President Trump, or something? Anyway, the only real benefit appears to be the extra space, so other passengers can't sneeze and cough at you as badly and infect you with their respiratory diseases. 

Back to the main story, when I entered the executive car, there was an American couple with I think two kids and a baby, a young American lady, and a young Italian gentleman. The young lady and the kids seemed to be particularly enjoying lounging in their executive seats. She was like, "Yay, we get to ride in executive!" 

At that point your conductor #2 had the chance to become the hero of the night by making up for the misconduct of your police. We'd have gotten a free upgrade to executive, we'd have all but forgotten the delay caused by the misconduct of your police, and we'd have had nothing but good things to say about your railroad. All she had to do was nothing. Instead, she chose to defend the sanctity of her executive car against us business class bums with all her petty powers. 

I offered to pay for executive by credit card or trade the compensation we were owed for the delay for upgrades, but conductor #2 flatly refused all offers. Now, I get it that the root cause is your primitive booking system, which apparently doesn't have a miscellaneous category for selling ad-hoc upgrades. That reflects poorly enough on your railroad, but the real problem is the insulting way your conductor #2 handled the situation. 

She claimed she was doing us a favor by letting us on "her" train at all. Obviously, she considers "her" train her private property, her own miniature railroad, where she gets to hand out favors to passengers of other trains. Well, I paid a fare to Trenitalia, not to an individual conductor, and getting me to my destination as efficiently as possible under the circumstances is the responsibility of all Trenitalia (my auto correct now wants to call your railroad Genitalia) staff. The concept of staff doing a customer a favor is an impossibility. Anything staff does for a customer should be done happily. The customer is king. 

She said she was unable to sell us upgrades to executive as "Your tickets aren't valid on this train," as if we we were fare dodgers. She should have said, "You weren't originally booked on this train." 

The worst part, however, was that she kept saying, "You're business class passengers" in a tone as if a business class passenger were something she just found under her shoe. 

Some of the dialogue I attribute to conductor #2 may in fact have been said by her assistant. That, however, doesn't matter so much it's a Doesn't Matterhorn, as both were in perfect agreement on their nasty treatment of their passengers. 

In the end, four other passengers and I had to spend the whole trip at a tiny conference table in the executive car, seated on what's is best described as stools, while all the executive seats remained vacant all the way to Venice Santa Lucia. So your conductor #2, in one of the dumbest businesses decisions I ever witnessed, destroyed a product (let the seats go to waste) rather than give it away as free upgrades or free samples. 

I don't know if that's company policy at your railroad, or if conductor #2 was acting on her own nasty initiative, but it is an act so petty, so wasteful, and so insulting that I, for one, will never set foot on a Trenitalia train again. You could have made more than a half dozen passengers happy, turning them into loyal customers who'd have told everyone how your staff unbureaucratically solved the problem your police created, but now you have the same number of former customers who have nothing to say about you except how petty and nasty you are and how you hate your own customers (except executive, and executive apparently is sold only to your insiders). I, for one and for sure, will tell everyone and publicize everywhere what a horrible railroad Trenitalia is and how much your staff hates its passengers (except executive). 

Given that all but one passenger in the executive car were foreigners, your conductor #2 also acted as a terrible, horrible, very, very very bad, no good cultural ambassador for Italy, leaving the impression that Italians are petty, nasty, and cruel. I, for one, despite having had to deal with one or two petty and nasty Italian officials before, thought that Italians in general were less rude than, for instance, Germans. That, of course, was naive, and I now have the impression that in Italy there are just as many nasty people as in every other country. I had even considered moving to your beautiful country and exploring it by train, but given that I won't do business with Trenitalia ever again and that Italo seems to serve only the major cities, that's off the table now. 

The only thing I regret doing last night, in addition to changing trains in Bologna, is referring to conductor #1 as a "train captain" in my discussion with conductor #2 and her assistant. Trains don't have captains. They have conductors. Especially yours, as your conductors decidedly lack the competence and courtesy one would expect of a ship's captain. I heard that ridiculous term from the conductor of the only other Frecciarossa (funny, my auto correct turned this into "Freakarrosia," which is frankly closer to the truth) train I took before, telling me to show my ticket to the conductor of another train I had to transfer to due to a missed connection, of course on account of another delay of that so-called high speed train of yours. 

Let me conclude by congratulating you on your truly Teutonic level of customer service. I have never been treated this disrespectfully outside Germany, by Lufthansa and Deutsche Bahn, two (formerly?) state-owned companies legendary for their poor customer service. I bought a business class round trip ticket from your railroad. Your conductor #2 made it abundantly clear that to your railroad business (and presumably all lower) class travelers are nothing but scum. There's that old Prussian militaristic saying, "Mankind starts at the petty officer," implying that anyone who isn't at least a petty officer is subhuman. Apparently, to your railroad, anyone below an executive passenger is subhuman. 

As for a possible resolution, I don't think you're going to be willing to do what it would take, simply because qua faceless government bureaucrats, some of whom are probably keeping those executive seats off the market for their own personal use, you aren't even able to understand what a level of disrespect it constitutes to force passengers to ride in basically jump seats while executive seats are available mere yards away. A mere refund of the remaining fare would only add insult to injury. The absolute minimum would be warning conductor #1 to consider the consequences of her crazy plans, firing or at the very least docking one month's pay of conductor #2 and her assistant, and a free executive ticket for a distance equivalent to Bologna to Venice Santa Lucia for every person who was booted from an executive seat last night, or if those cannot be identified, for every person who made the fateful decision to change trains at Bologna. As I doubt you have the moral fiber for that, I'll just keep telling everyone who will listen or not what a horrible, terrible, very, very, very bad, no good railroad you are. I'll keep my account open for a bit, awaiting your bedbug letter. If you don't know what a bedbug letter is, Google is your friend. 

Monday, July 12, 2021

Cock Island Line

Now, this here's a story about the Cock Island Line 

Well, the Cock Island Line, she runs down into Pussy Town 

There's a big gal gate down there, and you know 

If you got certain things on board when you come to the gal gate 

Well, you ain't gonna get yourself no gal 

Well, a pile driver, he pulled up to the gal gate 

And the gal pouted and asked him what all he had on board, and he said 


I'm a snowflake 

I'm a snowflake 

I got Marx 

I got blacks 

I got masks 

I got rules 

I got all feminist 


Well, she said, you're alright boy, you are gonna get this gal 

You can just go right on through, so he went on through the gal gate 

And as he went through, he started pickin' up a little bit of speed 

Pickin' up a little bit of steam 

He got on through, he turned, and looked up at the gal, he said 


Well, I fooled you 

I fooled you 

I'm a Trump man 

I'm a Trump man 

I got all MAGA 


Down the Cock Island Line, she's a mighty good road 

Cock Island Line, it's the road to ride 

Cock Island Line, it's a mighty good road 

Well, if you ride it, you got to ride it like you find it 

Get your ticket in a blue state for the Cock Island Line 


Wednesday, April 14, 2021

Internal Chronology and Status of the Kevin Traynor Stories as of April 2021

Gunpowder Tea (Young Kevin Traynor) (fragment, may be abandoned)

Traynor and his future best friend Nick Parker meet during an adventure in Casablanca.

Torch in the Night (available)

Traynor, Parker, and Jennifer Jordan have to stop a conspiracy to destroy the United States.

Phantom Train (available)

Traynor, Parker, and mining engineer Connie Chandler investigate a phantom train depopulating an Arizona mining town.

Mysterious Boat (available):

The Mystery of the Mysterious Boat

Traynor, Jennifer, and Parker investigate a mysterious boat haunting an old house in Malibu.

The Secret of the Lost Tribe

Traynor and Jennifer encounter Indian ghost riders in New Mexico.

Mystic Triangle (writing)

Traynor, Jennifer, and Parker get involved in an Anarcho-Capitalist revolution.

Kevin Traynor, P.I. (working title):

The Phantom of Broadway (fragment, abandoned due to boring)

Traynor's Broadway theater is haunted by a phantom.

The Case of the Kidnapped O'Connors (available)

Jennifer's Frank O'Connor paintings are stolen from a locked room.

Eighty Million Maniacs (rewriting, editing)

Howard is kidnapped to force Traynor and Jennifer to find a hidden treasure in a medieval town in the land of eighty million maniacs.

Chelsea Cinderella (editing)

During a party, the crown jewels of Nassau-Wittgenstein are stolen from that country's embassy in New York City.

The Riddle of the Ratty Rock Star (fragment, may be postponed to a later book or abandoned)

An unsavory punk rocker is killed in a locked room.

Kevin Traynor and Crypto Queenie (working title):

Time Slip (writing)

Traynor and crypto currency wizard Britt Coyne travel back to the Middle Ages in a castle in Latvia.

Voynich Manuscript (writing)

Traynor, Britt, and Parker follow the clues encoded in the Voynich manuscript to find its treasure in Prague.

La Serenissima (idea, plotting)

Traynor and Britt fly to Venice, Italy, for a romantic getaway; hilarity ensues.


Wednesday, June 14, 2017

The Battle Hymn of the God Emperor

Mine eyes have seen the glory of the coming of the Lord;
He is trampling out the idiots where the democrats are stored;
He hath loosed the fateful lightning of His terrible swift sword:
His truth is marching on.

(Chorus)
Glory, glory, hallelujah!
Glory, glory, hallelujah!
Glory, glory, hallelujah!
His truth is marching on.

I have seen Him in the pictures of a myriad memic clone,
They have builded Him an altar in The Donald Reddit zone;
I can read His righteous sentence on a dim and flick'ring phone:
His day is marching on.

(Chorus)
Glory, glory, hallelujah!
Glory, glory, hallelujah!
Glory, glory, hallelujah!
His day is marching on.

I have read his fiery gospel writ in burnished rows of steel:
"As ye deal with my contemners, so with you my tweets shall deal";
Let the Hero, born of woman, crush the leftoids with His heel,
Since Trump is marching on.

(Chorus)
Glory, glory, hallelujah!
Glory, glory, hallelujah!
Glory, glory, hallelujah!
Since Trump is marching on.

He has sounded forth the trumpet that shall never call retreat;
He is sifting out the hearts of men before His judgment-seat;
Oh, be swift, my soul, to answer Him! Be quick to like His tweet!
Our God is marching on.

(Chorus)
Glory, glory, hallelujah!
Glory, glory, hallelujah!
Glory, glory, hallelujah!
Our God is marching on.

In the beauty of the lilies Trump was born across the lea,
With a courage in His bosom that transfigures you and me.
Like He lives to drive cucks crazy, let us live to make men free,
While Trump is marching on.

(Chorus)
Glory, glory, hallelujah!
Glory, glory, hallelujah!
Glory, glory, hallelujah!
While Trump is marching on.

He is coming like the glory of the morning on the wave,
He is Sanction to producers, He is Succor to the brave,
So Europe shall be His footstool, Angela Merkel His slave,
Our God is marching on.

(Chorus)
Glory, glory, hallelujah!
Glory, glory, hallelujah!
Glory, glory, hallelujah!
Our God is marching on!

Happy Birthday, God Emperor Donald J. Trump!

"I can't spare this man — he fights."

— Abraham Lincoln

Happy Flag Day, one and all!

Praise Kek!

Shadilay, my friends!

Wednesday, January 18, 2017

Little Red Riding Hood

Once upon a time, Little Red Riding Hood went visiting her grandmother. So Little Red Riding Hood put on her little red riding hood and set out on a dangerous hike on the winding paths under the gloomy canopy of trees, where the wilding wolves had taken many a jogger. Finally, after a perilous journey past the tree huggers, hippies, bums, junkies, and perverts of the forest, she emerged on Central Park West.

When she got to the tiny cottage at the end of the limestone canyon where her grandmother lived, she knocked at the door. "Granny, Granny, are you home? I brought you your favorite rugelach!"

But when the door creaked open, it wasn't her grandmother opening it, but a handsome, charming prince with a head of luxuriant blond hair, much like a golden pussycat.

"Why, what orange skin you have!" exclaimed Little Red Riding Hood in wonder.

"The better to stain you with!" the prince growled.

"What tiny, deep-set eyes, framed by pale circles, like a negative image of the raccoons in the woods, or a highwayman's mask, you have!"

"The better to ogle you with!"

"What short, vulgar fingers you have!"

"The better to grope you with!"

"What shiny big hair you have!"

"The better to seduce you with!"

"Uh, is my Granny home, sir?" Little Red Riding Hood timidly changed the subject.

"No, she very, very, very much isn't! And you'll really, really never see her again, you little red anchor baby! I deported your huge illegal alien grandmother to her ancestral homeland! Sad. Will you marry me, you huge little hater and loser?" the prince boldly changed the subject. "It's going to be amazing. Believe me."

"But why would I marry you, you who deported my Granny?" Little Red Riding Hood sobbed.

"Because you're a really, really hot piece of ass under that very, very, very silly little red riding hood, plus I really, really like marrying aliens. Because I'm the God Emperor Donald J. Trump, and I'm very, very, very rich. I'll give you $10,000,000! Because I'll make you great again, like everything I touch! Because I have huge, well-formed hands! Look, having God Emperor Donald J. Trump — my uncle was a great professor and scientist and engineer, Dr. John Trump at MIT; good genes, very good genes, OK, very smart, the Wharton School of Finance, very good, very smart — you know, if you’re a conservative Republican, if I were a liberal, if, like, OK, if I ran as a liberal Democrat, they would say I'm one of the smartest people anywhere in the world — it’s true! — but when you're a conservative Republican, they try — oh, do they do a number — that’s why I always start off: Went to Wharton, was a good student, went there, went there, did this, built a fortune — you know I have to give my, like, credentials all the time, because we’re a little disadvantaged — but you look at the nuclear deal, the thing that really bothers me — it would have been so easy, and it’s not as important as these lives are (nuclear is powerful; my uncle explained that to me many, many years ago, the power, and that was 35 years ago; he would explain the power of what's going to happen, and he was right — who would have thought?), but when you look at what's going on with the four prisoners — now it used to be three, now it’s four — but when it was three and even now, I would have said it's all in the messenger; fellas, and it is fellas because, you know, they don't, they haven’t figured that the women are smarter right now than the men, so, you know, it’s gonna take them about another 150 years — but the Persians are great negotiators, the Iranians are great negotiators, so, and they, they just killed, they just killed us. Oh, and otherwise, I'll have to deport you to your ancestral homeland. You'd really, really be a not smart person. Believe me. Sad."

By now, Little Red Riding Hood was deeply in love with the God Emperor Donald J. Trump, with his unwarranted self-confidence, his money, his power, his fame, his charm, his wit, his intellect, his handsome good looks, and his beautiful hair, like all women. Plus, he had freed her from her really, really not good, nasty, horrible, fat, old illegal alien grandmother with the face of a dog (who used to bleed from every possible orifice in her younger days).

And they lived happily ever after, if he didn't leave her for a younger woman. Sad.

A Fairytale of New York 

Monday, October 17, 2016

Hilly and the Great Man

(With apologies to Tanya Tucker.)

He came ridin' in on the sunrise on a hot West New York day
A fancy man in a golden limo with some fancy things to say
Looks like you folks need some greatness, well, greatness is my game
And if you folks can raise some one trillion dollars, I betcha I can make you great

Step back, nonbelievers, or the great will never come
Someone start them crosses a-burning, somebody stroke my bum
He said, some may think I'm crazy for making all these claims
But I swear before this year is over you folks are gonna be so great

They all just stood there a-staring, trying to believe
But there was one named Hilly Clinton who said he was a lying cheat
She said, you call yourself a great man, well, you oughta be ashamed
Starting all these people dreamin', thinking you can make 'em great

Step back, nonbelievers, or the great will never come
Someone keep them crosses a-burning, somebody stroke my bum
He said, some may think I'm crazy for making all these claims
But I swear before this year is over you folks are gonna be so great

Hey, Hilly, well, a man's got to have a dream
And if you will come on inside with me, I'll grope you in between
Oh, come with me, Hilly, and the arse will write your name
And if you still think I'm lying to you, look yonder, there comes the great

Step back, nonbelievers, or the great will never come
Someone keep them crosses a-burning, somebody stroke my bum
He said, some may think I'm crazy for making all these claims
But I swear before this year is over you folks are gonna be so great

[Repeat and fade]

Tuesday, December 23, 2014

Merry Christmas from Satan Claus

Drunken Bums, or Merry Christmas from Satan Claus, or Christmas in the Ghetto

Ghetto sidewalks, dirty sidewalks dressed in vomit and bile,
In the air there's a feeling like dry rot
Children brawling, people passing, picking fight after fight
And on every street corner you hear — drunken bums
(Drunken bums, drunken bums)
Drunken bums
(Drunken bums)
It's Christmas time in the ghetto
Ring-a-ling
(Ring-a-ling, ring-a-ling)
Hear them sing
Soon it will be judgment day
Broken street lights although cop lights blink a bright red and blue
As the pigs rush by to commit murder
Hear the shots speed, see the kids bleed
This is Satan's big scene
And above all this carnage you hear
Drunken bums
(Drunken bums, drunken bums)
Drunken bums
(Drunken bums)
It's Christmas time in the ghetto
Ring-a-ling
(Ring-a-ling, ring-a-ling)
Hear them sing
Soon it will be judgment day
Drunken bums
(Drunken bums, drunken bums)
Drunken bums
(Drunken bums)
It's Christmas time in the ghetto
Ring-a-ling
(Ring-a-ling, ring-a-ling)
Hear them sing
Soon it will be — judgment day



Sunday, August 31, 2014

Wave in an Ice Bucket

An open letter to all the collectivist morons that participated in the notorious "ALS ice bucket challenge."

Rarely have I encountered on this planet full of morons a horror as revolting as this ice bucket nonsense. First off, the obvious.

Making donations based not on data where a donation might do good, but on stupid pranks and videos predictably leads to a massive misallocation of resources.

Then, this stupid stunt can quite easily kill the very people trying to save lives the armchair activist way. Getting doused with cold water on a hot day can easily give you a heart attack, and at least one person died jumping into a particularly large "bucket."

But far worse than any misallocated money or death from freak accident is the sheer primeval mob spirit in which these pranks are performed.

When do you soaked, shivering rocket surgeons exactly plan to use your brains, to the extent that you have any, and start thinking for yourselves? When someone nominates you for a "light a firecracker in your mouth" challenge? When Al Qaida collects $100 million because they have a cool video? Before you vote for the next fuehrer because he has a cool party trick?

If you cheer mob spirit and irrationality, if "nominating," shaming, guilting, peer pressure, and blind following is the coin of your realm, this is what you are cheering on:


Don't ask who is destroying the world. You are.

If the world goes down your path, you are going to solve the ALS issue ironically, because people will once again be slaughtering each other before they ever get a chance to develop ALS, just like in the Dark Ages, just like in World War II. That is the nature of barbarity.

As ironically, if you would quit wasting time on collectivist blackmail and use it instead for teaching people to think for themselves, people would become more productive, GDP would increase, and more money would be available for all research even without pressuring people to give. That is the nature of progress.

You and your methods are disgusting, no matter how noble you claim the ends you advocate to be. Plus, wet, you look ridiculous. Now go away and be ashamed of yourselves.

Wednesday, January 29, 2014

Surfin' NSA

(With apologies to the Bitch Boys Beach Boys.)

If everybody was like Snowden
Across the USA
Then everybody'd be surfin'
Phreakin' the CIA
You'd see 'em breakin' out netbooks
Anarchic vandals, too,
With tablets, smart phones, and dumb Nooks
Surfin' NSA

You'd catch 'em surfin' at Langley (inside, outside USA),
Anne Arundel County line (inside, outside USA),
At the ports and bases (inside, outside USA)
Mediterranean (inside, outside USA),
All over Manhattan (inside, outside USA),
And on Doheny Drive (inside, outside USA)

Everybody's gone surfin'
Surfin' NSA

We'll all be crackin' us a router
We're gonna take real soon
We're bringin' down their networks
We can't wait for June
We'll all be gone for the summer
We're on safari to stay
Tell Obama we're surfin'
Surfin' NSA

At Feinstein's and Schumer's (inside, outside USA),
Pacific carriers base (inside, outside USA),
Foggy Bottom and Georgetown (inside, outside USA),
Outside the Pentagon (inside, outside USA),
All over the Beltway (inside, outside USA),
At Waimea Bay (inside, outside USA)

Everybody's gone surfin'
Surfin' NSA

Everybody's gone surfin'
Surfin' NSA

Everybody's gone surfin'
Surfin' NSA

Everybody's gone surfin'
Surfin' NSA

Yeah, everybody's gone surfin'
Surfin' NSA

Yeah, everybody's gone surfin'
Surfin' NSA