How lovely.

There was never a person anywhere, anytime who has ever uttered the phrase, "Gee the New York subway system is just so... so... CLEAN!" I have seen some serious dry-heave-inducing passengers in my day (I once watched in horror as an old Asian man, brilliantly not holding on to anything as the subway left the station, fell off balance and landed smack on my friend, the crack of his ass resting perfectly on my friend's arm), but the following gentleman takes the frickin' taco, boy. For the rest of this story, he shall be referred to as Mucus Boy.

Mucus Boy was hunched over quietly by a door seat, baggy pants pratically wrapped around his ankles, hat turned a click past sideways to make him, like, the coolest. Mucus Boy was holding a New York Times; for what, I have no idea. He didn't appear to be reading it so much as marvelling at it-- what are these wonderful things with all these letters? At this point I must admit that I was being merely judgemental. Really, the guy was just minding his own business. And then came the cough.

Now I, as most of you, have coughed before. Sure, sometimes something comes up and you happen to be in an enclosed public space. That's just life. Generally, out of consideration for others and my own peace of mind, I bite the bullet and send it back to where it came from. But not my buddy. Not our fearless hero of phlegm, Mucus Boy. Very casually, he moved the newspaper out from under his face. Ever so slightly he dropped an atomic bomb of a loogie on to the floor of the subway. And then smooth as sandpaper put his foot over it.

I gagged, hoping I wouldn't have to deposit something of my own onto the floor. Luckily, I got off at the next stop, but not after having learned a valuable lesson: never let your bag touch a subway floor again, and if possible, your feet as well.

I'd like to take this opportunity to quote Russell from Fat Albert:

"You're like school during a snowstorm. No class."