12:08 am
17 August 2017

FrontRunner Commuters View Temple-Square-Christmas-Lights-Bound Hordes

FrontRunner Commuters View Temple-Square-Christmas-Lights-Bound Hordes

SEASONS GREETINGS: With eyes fixed on a festive weekend, homebound commuters all along the Wasatch Front rushed to UTA’s FrontRunner stations in order to view the scintillating ornamentation of raucous hordes of Temple Square-bound travelers who were set to see Christmas lights.

Surrounded by the Skittles- and soda-driven sugar highs of countless adolescents, the post-work commuters were finally set to unwind after a grueling week only to have nearly all senses affected by wreaths of Young Women groups, trinkets of cub scouts, and the flickering, colorful leaders of same.

Not everyone on the train was impressed, though. Commuter JJ Rivers said, “As footsteps rumbled up the stairs I heard the overly positive inflections of a thirty-something, who said, “Here comes everyone’s favorite him!” I first thought I was merely surrounded by weak grammatical shlubs; instead, the sentence’s subject was the pronoun’s homonym, so you can imagine my abject horror when a baker’s dozen’s worth of folks started shamelessly singing off-key, though sincere, Christmas tunes that’d lull a Presbyterian congregation to slumber.”

Rivers said he “booked it asap” to switch from the bi-level cab car to the “weird refurbished single-level one with the brown seats and no electrical outlets.” He went on: “FrontRunner’s 79 MPH cannot deliver me fast enough from this audible outer darkness.”

The choral round of internecine disagreements sang to each person’s holiday-edly discontented heart; the heavily headphoned and enervated post-work commuters sang killjoy to the world while the Temple Square-bound revelers emitted non-caustic shrieks of SkipBo-caused adrenaline piques at—yes, seriously—every available and highly prized table of the double-decker cars, rendering null each frequent traveler’s ability to recharge a phone or an ancient iPod shuffle lost in the deep recesses of purses and/or bags.

Passengers marched through wafts of what seemed like a marriage of Bath & Body Works and cinnamon only to discover that each of the bi-level cab cars was sardined with German efficiency with folks of Santa-ed sentiment. In order to evade the ghastly Salt Lake Central Station 5-minute wait, or the frenzy of North Temple Station’s shuffling busy-bodies, the majority of the commuters exited at Murray Central to hop on the Blue & Red lines of Trax in a desperate attempt to make the world right amongst the impatient, unwashed masses.

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