June 24, 2002 | 10:44 AM

When I am listening to music on headphones, I have an unfortunate habit of believing that because I can�t hear myself talk, no one else can either.

Case in point.

This morning I had The Who cranked up to the toppermost volume on my discman. I was on the bus, feeling a tad hungover from all the Saki I drank the evening before and was passing the time meditating on the profound hipness of Pete Townsend and company. I merely wanted a few moments of peace prior to getting off the bus and beginning the workplace grind.

This was not possible.

Why? Because seated directly behind me were two men of Middle Eastern origin carrying on a heated argument in their native tongue.

They were being so loud that I could hear them distinctly over Roger Daltry�s proselytizing about the new boss and the old boss, both of whom apparently are the same person.

I clutched my supersized headphones tight to my head in hopes that if the sound emanated a tad closer to my eardrums, I would be able to drown out the yelling and clucking by Mr. and Mr. Vehemently Rude.

No such luck.

My head hurt. My eyes began watering.

I pointedly turned around twice and stared at the passionate pair. Maybe if I glared at them they�d get the point.

�Didn�t happen.

I thought to myself,

JESUS FUCKING CHRIST WILLYOU BOTH SHUT THE FUCK UP? PLEASE JUST SHUT THE FUCK UP!

But the funny thing was, when I thought that, the two men immediately stopped talking and everyone else on the bus turned around and stared at me.

Can they all read my mind, I wondered?

Nope.

I hadn�t just thought it. I�d said it.

Or rather, I�d yelled it in the manner that only an exasperated hungover Who fan can on a Monday morning at 7:30.

SHUT THE FUCK UP.

Do do do do do do do do Gotta feelin� inside
Can�t explain
Certain kind
Can�t explain
Feel hot and cold
Can�t explain
Down in my sould yeah
Can�t explain