I Hate Your Morning Ambush

For some time now, my body has decided to act like a giant fucking sideshow. My back goes out at the slightest tweak, to the point where I sometimes have to manually drag my leg up the subway stairs like I'm Keyser-fucking-Söze. My nose bleeds randomly - just opens like a faucet. It happened during a client lunch recently, and got all over my shirt. I'm sure they didn't think that I was sneaking off to the bathroom to blow rails off the toilet seat, no, no - everyone's nose bleeds for no reason. And they must have loved staring at my blood-stained shirt as they ate their Hill Country brisket. Also, I wake up at 7am on the weekends, my eyes unwilling to shut again, even though I have absolutely NOTHING to do. But during the week, I wake up thirty-seven times throughout the night and then finally fall back into the deepest sleep possible three minutes before I have to be up for good. It fucking sucks. It makes my mornings unbearable. So when I see someone I know during my morning commute, and they want to chat, it's takes all my energy to not impale my throat with an umbrella-spoke to avoid an extended conversation.

I'm not sure why this bothers me so much. Maybe because they're acquaintances and have nothing important to say, but are so fucking full of themselves and/or shit that they would rather gnaw-off my ear talking about some fucking club they got fucking drunk at on Saturday than listen to their music and pretend they are the King of Hawaii, like I do. Oh, you didn't know that Hawaii has a king, WELL GET WITH THE FUCKING PROGRAM ASSHOLE, BECAUSE IT DOES*.

I would listen if you had something to say, but you don't. Your stories are boring. Blah blah blah, she was so hot...blah blah blah, I threw up in my pants...blah blah blah, I suck...I DON'T CARE! Talk to me when you have a story that involves you fighting off a giant Russian spy with a shovel on a ghost-driven Greyhound Bus. I promise that you will have my full attention when this happens.

I literally collapse in on myself like a dying star when I'm on the subway and I meet eyes with someone that I know. It's more disheartening than watching your dog get mowed down by a drunk driver. I have to physically restrain myself from diving head first through the subway window. I know I can do it. I saw "Money Train."

When the inevitable conversation starts, I have to feign interest. Oh let me pull out one of my earphones for you, dear friend, because I care about how much tequila you drank on Friday, and the hottness of the NYU girl you banged in the alley next to Dos Caminos. I'm nodding my head and smiling, because I am interested, not because I'm thinking about who around me would try and restrain me if I suddenly leaped upon you and began biting your throat like a fucking werewolf. Yes, yes, I too love Calico Jacks, yes, yes, it's my favorite bar in the city! What a coincidence, we have so much in common! I'm so fucking glad you interrupted my coma to talk to me about your new fucking Sony Trinitron.

There's really no way to avoid the inevitable and potentially awkward exchange, if the person approaching you is intent on talking. One time, I locked eyes with a guy I worked with. But I was fucking cranky as shit, so I lowered my head and blew past him. I turned back to see if he had noticed. The look on his face was complete shock. It was like I just dropped my pants in front of his mom and began playing the air guitar and singing "Paradise City." I didn't see what the big deal was. So what, so I don't want to talk to you - why the fuck do I have to? Why? Why can't I just be LEFT THE FUCK ALONE BEFORE 9AM???

There was one time I found myself face-to-face with a coworker. It was -39° Celsius, snowing, the sun hadn't been out in three weeks, and the refuge, believe it or not, was the subway. He looked up, saw me, nodded his head, and went back to his book. It was like winning the lottery. Sweet, sweet serenity. Then the mariachi assholes got on and starting singing, but I was too satisfied to care. They got a pass on that day.


*false

I Hate Fat People on the Subway

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.