This. Video. Is. ABSURD. I’ve never seen such an over-the-top response to a simple foot stomp. Honestly, subway foot stomps happen ALL THE TIME. Part of the fun of taking the subway is finding out how many of your toes aren’t broken at the end of the ride. The only instance in which this might be an appropriate response to the situation at hand would be if this woman had guessed Rumpelstiltskin’s name and he STILL insisted on spiriting away with her baby.
I first joined OkCupid back in December of 2009. Back then, I was working full time, I had my own apartment, and I was more of a developed adult than I am now. The only thing that was missing from my grown-up life was a boyfriend – so one night, I created an online dating profile, and the hits started coming in.
By ‘hits,’ I definitely mean ‘weird messages from dudes who were clearly single for a reason.’ Every girl on OkCupid attracts a different sort of unsavory suitor. Mine can be described only as ‘gym-rat muscle heads with disproportionately shrunken heads,’ and there were definitely a bunch of messages from them, but there were also lots of cute guys to meet, so I started booking dates.
I went out with around 10 guys the first month I was on the site. The first one seemed like a laugh riot online, but when we met up in person, I was startled by the fact that he had an unnaturally shiny, red face and an incredibly high-pitched lady’s voice. Seeing how I have a deep voice for a woman, it was deeply unnerving to be on a date with a guy who spoke in a higher octave than me. We went to McSorley’s, where I was forced to squeeze into a seat right next to the wood-burning stove or whatever that thing is. Predictably, I managed to lean against said maybe-stove and give myself a third degree burn on my tender, fleshy bicep. Date foul, for sure. We said goodbye on the subway and I’m pretty sure he gave me a high-five to end the night, which suited me just fine, except for the fact that his hand was simultaneously clammy, cold and smaller than mine.
I rarely go to bars. I don’t like the taste of alcohol, and resultantly, I have the tolerance of a flea. After two beers, I start to feel queasy and hot, and almost every time I “go out,” I end up doing that embarrassing thing where you order a pint of water at the bar and then excuse yourself to go home and take a nap on the bathroom floor (just me? Okay then).
Moreover, I can’t stand drunk people. There are few things more tedious and irritating than having to listen to someone loudly theorize about dumb shit like how her version of the color blue could be my version of the color red. Drunk people spit on you and shout, and eventually they stagger out of the bar with a mint-green face and barf on the sidewalk while you’re trying to hail a cab.
I know this from personal experience. When I lived in Scotland, there was a bar on the town’s main street called The Keys. This place was a SERIOUS “locals pub,” meaning that its clientele consisted exclusively of decrepit, cirrhotic old men who hated university students like me. Once I saw an 80-year-old gentleman in a tattered coat stagger out of The Keys at 2pm on a Monday and projectile vomit against a wall, and I still count that as one of the grossest and most depressing things I’ve ever seen.
The question is, though, where do young people hang out if not in bars? I wish bookstores would replace bars as the places to go when you want to let loose on a Saturday night. Who’s with me?
It really goads me when I see some moron crossing the street against the light when there are cars hurtling in either direction and it’s clearly not safe to do so. What on earth is the point of acting like such a reckless ass clown? Will the extra ten seconds you’ll save by pretending you’re Frogger really make THAT much of a difference in your commute? Unless you have a bomb strapped to your chest and you need to cover twenty blocks in five minutes, stay the fuck on the sidewalk like a rational human being and wait until the light is green.
Today, I witnessed a truly revolting thing: a woman CHANGING her toddler’s DIAPER while he stood on the SIDEWALK next to his carriage. Clearly he had deuced himself, and for whatever reason, this nasty woman had thought, “Hey, why walk the one block to a public bathroom when I can just strip, wipe and change my 2 year old right here on 85th?” It wasn’t like it was a fast operation, either – the mother had to robustly scrub her child’s soiled rump for five minutes before he was finally clean enough to be re-diapered. The weirdest thing was that no one else on the street seemed to notice or care. WTF? Seriously, just WTF. That’ll teach me to leave the house while the sun is still out.
I was walking down Park Avenue the other day when I spied a junkie nodded out in a wheelchair on the corner. He was sound asleep, wearing fingerless gloves and everything, and a thread of saliva three inches long was hanging from his open mouth. As I neared him, a tall, robotic man in a business suit who looked like a member of a security detail backed into view. Apparently, this cyborg had been dispatched to direct fifty second graders from the local Jewish elementary school across Park Avenue. I watched the children trot past the bum, the sun glinting off of his drool, the little boys’ tzitzit swaying in the breeze, and I thought to myself, “Now THAT is a New York City upbringing.”
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