Rants. Subway Etiquette.

Oh, I’m sorry, is this your personal subway? No one gets a seat for themselves AND their bags. I call bullshit on that. And just because you deliberately don’t make eye contact with me doesn’t mean you’re released from this obligation.

Hit me in the nose for a third time with the edge of your newspaper while turning the page on this packed rush hour train. I double-dog dare you.No singing. No matter how compelling the music blaring in your ear buds might be.

You’re all packed near the door like Pringles. Move to the center of the train. It’s an oasis in there. Come on, guys. I’d do it for you! (Maybe.)

This ain’t a cafeteria. No fried food or fish on this train. Hell no.

You honestly don’t need to jockey for the exit door in front of me when I’m leaving, too.Ma’am? There’s NO room. No one else can fit in this packed car. By squeezing in like this against me, you can’t just make the “whaddya gonna do?” expression and expect everything to be cool between us. We should at least have a cocktail together before this level of intimacy.

And please, oh please, don’t fart. Not even a little, because ‘Ma’am’ just made your skinny ass invade my ever shrinking sphere. Can’t I just enjoy my book?

Thank you, ladies and gentlemen, and have a blessed day.

About the Author |
We earn our living selling New York City. The next day is never like the last. The last is never ordinary. We witness all sorts. We listen to the City’s noise. We devour its phenomenal food. On the Real is our documentary. It is your pack of unfiltered New York 100s.