An Open Letter to Those Responsible for My Atrocious Morning Commute

Dear Asshat in the Green Dress Pants and Brown Sport Coat,

Why are you singing?

Why?

You know it’s 8:30 in the goddamn morning, don’t you? You think anyone wants to hear this bullshit when we’re on our way to our mindless, soul-crushing jobs?

I don’t give a fuck if you have sheet music on your lap. You think that excuses anything? Just because I carry around a copy of Hustler with me everywhere I go doesn’t mean I’m allowed to furiously beat off in public.

And please, don’t try to tell me that this is somehow part of your profession. I saw you get off at Queensboro Plaza. There is nothing cultural near the Queensboro Plaza stop. Nothing.

(Getty Images: Typical Queens Culture)

But let’s just say, for argument’s sake, that you’re in some sort of dinner theatre troupe in Queens (God help us all if such a thing exists.) Do you think that makes it ok for you to sing at the top of your lungs at 8:30 in the morning on the subway? Wrong again, fuck stick.

I’m tired, I’m angry, and I don’t have my iPod with me to drown you out.

You, sir, are a first-rate douche bag.

Dear Bill,

You are a good friend of mine, but why do you have to live so fucking far away from the subway? I left my iPod at your apartment last week, and I still haven’t gotten it back because getting to your place is quite possibly the worst experience ever.

Not only do I have to transfer 482 times on the subway, but once I’m out of there I have to fight my way through a sea of Pinkberry-eating, minority-hating, 80s music-loving Yuppie twats to get to your neighborhood.

(Getty Images: Look at this Yuppie bitch)

Then I have to keep walking, for, I don’t know, 20 minutes. There are only a handful of scenarios in life where I don’t mind dragging my ass around for more than 10 minutes at a time (e.g. hauling dead strippers from my apartment to the East River), and visiting you isn’t one of those scenarios.

If it weren’t for your horrible choice in apartment location I wouldn’t be listening to wannabe Josh Motherfuckin’ Groban right now.

Move.

Dear Obnoxiously Large Gay Dude Sweating All Over Me,

Why did you have to sit next to me? There were a lot of other open seats on the Subway when you got on, but you had to wedge your fat, gaping asshole in between me and the cocksucker singing show tunes.

If you’re so fucking fat that you have to slam your ass onto the back wall of the bench, then slide it down onto the seat, basically sitting on top of me, you know what you should do? NOT – SIT – DOWN.

Or you could, I don’t know, lose some fucking weight? Ever think of that? I’m sure you have an awesome time being a completely revolting waste of space, but you’re in serious danger of cutting down on the number of queertastic boners you’ll slurp over the course of your life due to premature death from a heart attack, diabetes, or getting stuck in between the toilet seat and the stall wall during your late night shift as the receiving end of a glory hole in the Penn Station restrooms.

Dear Guy Who is Sleeping on Me Even Though Nobody is Left on the Train,

I know you’re tired. We’re all tired. But that doesn’t give you the right to:

a) Rest your head on my shoulder and drool.

b) Continue to sleep on top of me even when we’re down by Canal Street and the train is half empty.

I know that most of the time you don’t move around when you’re on the subway, because chances are someone will just wind up sitting next to you at the next stop and all your effort will be for naught.

But you look like a commuter, and you should know that at this point in the voyage people stop getting on the train. The car is empty, it’s safe to move elsewhere. I suggest you do, or next time your head falls on my shoulder you might be surprised to find that I’m wearing something out of the Black Hole fashion calendar 2008.

(Getty Images: Rest your head on this, you stupid fuck)

Dear Roommate,

You’re a pretty cool guy. I met you on Craigslist, and somehow, against all odds, it’s worked out really well.

But you know what’s not cool? Coming home at 4:30 in the morning with a bunch of dudes to passionately debate politics.

What the fuck are you doing? I’d rather you be drunk out of your mind throwing our television out of the window. At least then you'd have an excuse. Why do you bring these butt fucks home when you're dead sober?

Here’s some friendly advice: cut that shit out.

I work at 9:00 in the morning, which means I wake up at 7:30, which means I don’t want to be woken up at 5:00. Not only is it tough to fall back asleep at that point because I’ve already gotten a halfway decent rest (though by no means sufficient), but my heart is beating so hard from my furious rage at being woken up at the ass crack of dawn that falling back asleep is virtually impossible.

And if there’s anything worse than putting up with my bullshit commute every morning, it’s putting up with my bullshit commute on no sleep.

So please, for the love of everything that is good and holy, don’t be a jackass. Keep it quiet. I’m fucking sleeping.

Yours truly,
The Gooch