Well hello! It's time for the twelfth installment of our favorite deconstruction of the horrors of public transit!
There have been so many incidences since our last chapter. Most notable, I think, was the woman sitting on the A train in a puddle of what I'm pretty sure was her own urine, smoking a cigarette. But that really sort of goes around the funny dial far enough to almost come round to being sad? So, I'm just going to leave it at that.
Be that as it may, there have still been lots of wonderful characters, and we've plenty to discuss. As we all know, my loathing of commutes is well documented. Subway rides in general are not all that bad, but during rush hours? Well, let’s put it this way: there are enough jackbags and asshats in the world such that they compose roughly 93.745% of the population as a whole—this a well-documented statistical fact. The subway is perhaps THE greatest—in terms of quantity, not quality—gathering point for people in New York. And when it’s packed quite literally to the gills long about 5:15 PM on a Wednesday, and then you factor in the aforequoted statistic…well, you get the idea. That’s a LOT of jackbags and asshats.
All of which is to say, as always, that rush hour commutes on New York’s glittering subway is a treasure trove of pleasures rivaled only by, say, a root canal without anesthesia, ingesting rotten meat raw, or the music—nay, general existence—of Katy Perry.
But every now and then—every once in a bright neon cornflower blue moon—comes a tiny ray of sunshine on an otherwise debilitatingly infuriating commute. Not long ago, one such of these rays of sunshine greeted me on the uptown B train.