Where's Amy Fisher when you need her?

I couldn't help but start eavesdropping when I heard the words "fag" and "homo" being casually tossed around as mock insults. As it turned out, that would be some of the least offensive conversation I'd be hearing.

Poor planning left me next to rather repulsive, raucous group of teenagers on the Long Island Railroad on Sunday. The epithets earned a few glares from me, but they didn't notice. Believe me, these four didn't notice anything outside of their immediate little bubble. Not there, not anywhere else.

The conversation quickly indicated these four kids were of the privileged class: talk of yachts, talk of an errant cook, talk of houses in Rome. For the 90 endless minutes on the train, they yammered about the money they had, and even worse, the money they knew they were going to earn once they entered business school.

One was eagerly awaiting Fidel Castro's death so he could gobble up land in Cuba and build a slew of hotels. Another was insistent that he would NEVER work in a job that required him to be in a cubicle. No, he would only have an office, moving directly from school to upper management. No sitting through meetings. He'd be the one running the meetings. The chubby girl in the group continued to spit out the fag and homo accusations. They were going to meet some group of people who had apparently berated Mr. Castro Death Watch to no end the last time they were together, calling him a faggot because of the plaid shirt he wore. Classy. Fortunately, that gathering was nowhere near Penn Station when the train ride mercifully ended.

It was those insufferable MTV Sweet 16 breeds in the flesh. Their concept of business sounded about as mature as a five-year-old dreaming of being an astronaut or a star shortshop when he grows up.

Remember in the film "Run Lola Run," when she'd pass a bystander on the street, and immediately split-second flashes of the rest of that person's life would pop on the screen? I've never wanted that superpower more than that moment. I wanted to watch these kids graduate from business school -- if they ever did -- and see the harsh reality of the corporate world slap them across the face. After all, they couldn't be THAT wealthy if they were riding a passenger train with the rest of us rabble.

As it turned out, I had to write my own ending. Mr. Castro and Ms. Homo-Hater were already a bit chubby, so no doubt their weight problems would be exacerbated as they entered their 20s. Ms. Homo-Hater ended up in Staten Island with a minimum wage husband and six children. Donald Trump beat Mr. Castro to the punch on his Cuba development deal, so he was left developing a block in Wildwood, New Jersey where 10th place finishers from American Idol and a Loverboy cover band are regular performers.

The Girl with the Errant Cook dropped out of college following an unwanted pregnancy stemming from an unfortunate frat house incident. She works the counter at a Duane Reade in East New York after her family cast her out. The fey Mr. No Cubicle, meanwhile, got his dream job and dream wedding. Unfortunately, he now pays a hefty portion of his salary to said wife, who caught him in bed with one of his "poker buddies" and is now blackmailing him.

This never used to happen on New Jersey Transit.