subway musical 
steven tyler photo 
jumping into tracks 
you tell him! 
cockroach 
empty car 
 
i'm going to puke 
train rules 
the last month 
stereotypical crazy mumbler 
drunks 
piddle puddle 
 
rock paper scissors 
random attack 
a man's shoes 
2 sentence story 
doors 
i am no help 
 
head 
are you threatening me? 
damn metrocard swipers 
comfortably asleep on my shoulder 
kick her ass 
almost bitten 
 
while i kiss the pole 
you're getting wet 
things not to pick up 
fondled twice 
turnie the turnstile turner 
subway curse 
 
apology to the mta 
subway music 
also good 
absolutely worse day in history 
cat on dog action 
religious icons performing oral sex 
 
mommy, i'm scared 
high alert 
white powder 
school of hard knocks 
maxims 
you don't have to go to university 
 
homework robot 
see you 
sully 
adina 
change 
be careful with the donuts 
 
flava flav 
that little sh*t bit me 
smelly 
i rebuke you demon in the name of jesus 
all day foreplay 
poo story #49202 
 
special dancers 
pee story #1283 
Subway Stories: true stories from new york's transit system 
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drunks
by squidbite
not truly a subway story, but close enough...

Anyone unlucky enough to have lived in NJ and commuted to NY via PATH train can already feel the peripatetic pain.

Add a late night on a cold Saturday, and a station full of boozehounds waiting for the ride of shame back to Hoboken and eventually that bastion of beauty, Jersey City, and you're three quarters of the way there.

After waiting the better part of an hour for the train in 33rd Street Station, then the eventual great push onto the Jersey-bound train, I managed to get wedged between a drunken frat-boy-type pack of barely literate meatheads, finding myself jammed up against the ubiquitous metal pole.

I look up and notice a very pale girl, face in hands alternating with the inevitable wiping of the brow with the back of a clammy hand. Finally, my stop arrives after I've been thoroughly naueated with the stench of stale beer, cigarettes and cheap cologne, and not a moment too soon.

And indeed not soon enough.

I am halfway out the door, the smell of freedom in my nostrils, when an unholy belch fills my ears and I hear the unmistakable and - unfortunately, unforgettable - sounds of splatter followed by the groan one hears when, say, a group of guys watches a fellow brother get kicked squarely in the nuts.

I turn around to see my new shoes, not to mention the bottoms of my pants, covered in yak.

What a nice way to end an evening. In Jersey.








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