No Thanks, I'll Just Walk

I must say, the New York subway system is impeccably designed. But before one can ever witness this in person, citizens are subjected obstacles more deadly than Indiana Jones in the relatively pussy Temple of Doom. Instead of Maryland's user-friendly, easy-to-notice-if-something's-wrong, pimp-door-type things that open up when you insert your metro card, New York's subway has turnstiles that unlock if by some miracle you swipe your card correctly. So basically, you swipe your card and hope for the best. But the MTA isn't stupid: if you swipe incorrectly, there's an illegible screen behind the card-swiper which you've inevitably already passed en route to the turnstile warning you of impending emberassment. But those merciful public servants don't stop there. There is also a beep, which to give them credit is audible, that's emitted when you mess up. Fortunately, however, this is almost the exact same fucking beep as when you swiped correctly. INGENIOUS. I doubt if Beethoven himself could decipher the 1 hertz difference between the two beeps.

It's one thing to walk into the turnstile, have it not turn, and dejectedly walk back to the swiper to try again. But the MTA has yet another trick up its sleeve: the horizontal bar on the turnstile is optimally positioned to line up perfectly with your nads. So instead of simply being denied access, the turnstile effectively asks you (in an annoying NY accent mind you), "What's the capital of Thailand?" But then without the courtesy of waiting for an answer, they Bangkok you with a big metal pipe. Now, you must limp back to the swiper, curl up in a ball, re-group for a while, re-swipe, and then find a fertility doctor.

But now that you've made it onto the subway platform you're home free, right? Not so fast my swollen-testacled friend. Since your sense of smell hasn't yet been fucked with, another pleasant surprise awaits you. As soon as you step on the train the unmistakeable aroma of caked, squatter urine hits you like a truck--an incredibly unsanitary truck at that. Now this is just a guess, but I think that instead of Lysol, the MTA breaks into doctor's offices, steals urine viles from as long ago as possible, leaves them out in the heat for months, and uses this to clean the subway trains. Already weakened from the afore mentioned harrowing experiences, this not being able to breathe for a half hour finishes most people off.

For the extra strong-willed, however, the MTA has one more trick up its sleeve. If you've managed to make it this long, then you'll inevitably die a few hours after your next meal. This is because the poles that you hold onto are quite possibly the most diseased things imaginable. They're like cest pools of New-York-bred bacteria which have been cross-breeding for decades. These poles make Radford look cleaner than a virgin. Washing your hands in your own shit would actually make them cleaner. The only way to save yourself is immediate burning of any clothes and amputation of any limb which comes in contact with these poles.

And there you have it ladies and gentlemen, a guide to the New York Subway System.

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