This morning I was bemoaning the lack of newsworthy events in my life when a traveling evangelist boarded the train and stood maybe three inches from my face for the entire ride. She brought us "'gredients" from the Lord, recited the 23rd Psalm and then began to "break it down, break it down, break it down na'" because, let's face it, "The Lord is my Shephard, nothing shall I want" is a pretty unclear sentiment.

It didn't take me long to notice the smell of nail polish in the air, and I snuck a peek through my bangs at her hands. Sure enough, the nails were bright red and the polish was bunched up at the cuticles, the way it gets when it's touched before it dries.

She had painted her nails in preparation for screaming on a train. Just like Jesus did.

Further peripheral inspection revealed an immaculately curled weave and an imitation Louis Vuitton satchel. Clearly, she's a shrewd interpreter of human behavior, one who knows that no one wants to spend their 45-minute commute unable to escape the hate-filled bellowing of a dingbat, unless that dingbat is dressed to the nines. Just flip through Acts of the Apostles; it's all "snappy robes" this and "fragrant myrrh" that.