True story, this woman bullied my 5'2'' wife out of THREE SEATS. Of course, the wife scolded her in front of the whole train car and then ran for her life. And I couldn't be more proud...BTW, please note the Big John Stud wrestling boots.
If asked, I doubt any of the 8,000,000+ people living in New York City will truthfully say that they enjoy riding the subway. You have to be certifiably insane, or you must genuinely enjoy hopping into a cramped box that's filled with putrid body odor and perverts and armed-maniacs and panhandlers spouting poorly executed sob-stories (you did not just lose your job, lady, you have three fucking teeth). It's just one of the many shitty aspects of living in NYC that you have to suck up and deal with (unless of course, you're loaded, and you can afford to travel around in your Bentley, living it up with your rich friends and laughing at assholes like me as we shuffle down oil-slick stairs into the pits of hell. I know that if I were a rich, entitled brat, I would definitely be laughing at your sappy puss as I leisurely caroused Manhattan, sipping 30 year-old Macallan's in between doing lines of cocaine off an anorexic model's bony ass. You may call me an asshole, because it's the truth.)
But there is one thing that makes riding the subway worse than anything, and that's fat people sitting down.
And I'm not talking about slightly overweight people (/me). I'm not even talking about people that might benefit by shaving off, oh I don't know, 70 or 80 or 130 lbs. I'm talking about obese people. Walking Cholesterol. People who are hoovering Big Mac's and French fries and onion rings into their fucking face for lunch, and then blaming only the 64 oz. soda for their planet-sized gut. I'm talking about people who have thighs wider than my waist and torsos the size of Jersey City. And I don't care so much about myself not being able to find a seat (I obviously need to stand-up in case a suicide bomber decides to end himself in honor of his invisible-friend/god on my commute home so I can dive under a bench and save my sorry ass), no, I'm talking about the middle-aged people who are forced to stand and watch these fatsos stuff their fucking hole with Cool Ranch Doritos while pretending they don't see the frail elderly man who's one shove away from a heart-attack, staring down at them with doe-eyes, silently begging them for one of the three seats that their fat-fucking-ass occupies.
Obviously, unlike airlines, there is no way to settle this problem. For the most part, we are a fat, selfish population and given the freedom, fat, selfish people tend to get their way. Do I hope some of these people fall down the stairs and maybe learn a lesson? Of course. Am I a bad person because of this? Probably. Do I give a fuck? No. If I were mayor, I would install scales into the turnstiles and anyone who registered over 380 lbs and wasn't Andre the Giant's son or above 6'3'' would immediately be sent to the fat car at the back of the train and forced to bump fupa's with the rest of the gluttons.
But that's just one terrible man's terrible solution, friends...
So, this next statement is meant to be read by you, Mr. or Mrs. Gigantic Fat-ass: if there are seats aplenty, then please, enjoy the feeling of three seat-separators penetrating your doughy thighs. But if the train is crowded, and their is a 100 year old woman hanging onto poles for dear life while trying not to bump into the bumbling psycho with a machete tucked into his sweatpants, then do society a service and stand up, or opt for the fucking "Ranch-Lite" once and a while.