Subway Enemy Number 231: Best Friends

There are lots of things that can go wrong on the subway. Trains can be late, crowded, or unbearably hot, and sometimes, if you're not careful, they can make you hold their trophies while they kiss your girlfriend.

But just because there's a lot going on in the subway that you can't control, doesn't mean there aren't some things you can do to give yourself a more pleasurable train-riding experience.

If you've been following my exhaustive series on the New York city subway system, then you know that identifying your subway enemies is one of the most important things you actually can do. So stop anxiously peering down that tunnel. It's not going to make the train come any faster. Instead, evaluate your competition, and make the correct adjustments based on who is near you.

(Omaha! Omaha!)

Today we look at one of the most dangerous subway goers out there. A group that is so deadly and efficient in destroying your commute, they might as well be a staph infection in Kellen Winslow's ball sack.

That's right, today we're talking about the dreaded, the evil, the malicious, BEST FRIENDS.

In general, friendship is a good thing. Friends will hook you up with a decent dealer when you move to a new town. Friends will try to stop you from attacking that 400 pound bouncer at 3 am. Friends will even go so far as to buy you a shot on your birthday in the hopes that you black out and piss yourself in the middle of the bar after collapsing during a drunken rap-along to Regulate, the hit song from Def Jam recording artist Warren G.

Yes, we all know the benefits of friendship.

But what you probably don’t realize is that friendship has a side so dark, so sinister, it would make the Jonas Brothers squirm.

(Pure Eeeevil)

When it’s early in the morning, and you’re barely awake, almost nothing is worse than sitting next to the dreaded best friends. Or, even worse, to have one sitting next to you, and another standing over you as they volley verbal diarrhea back and forth, like an even more sick and twisted aural version of 2girls1cup.com.

Think of it like being next to a cell phone yapper, only you get to hear both ends of whatever inane, worthless conversation is taking place.

Listen up, friends, we don’t give a fuck about that great new cheese you tried last night, and we certainly couldn’t care less about how long you were on the elliptical yesterday. We’re exhausted, we’re hung over, we’re surrounded by fat, blathering retards, and we’re probably gassy, too.

So do us all a favor and shut the fuck up already. I mean, what could you possibly be talking about? You obviously live together, because you’re arguing over who polished off the bottle of Pinot Grigio in a desperate attempt to forget the miserable, cookie-cutter yuppified life you’ve created for yourselves. So what the FUCK could have happened between the time you went to bed last night and the butt crack of dawn, which it currently is.

Here’s an idea, why don’t you actually be quiet for 2-3 seconds and think about something. Anything. Just use your own goddamn brain for once to entertain yourself. Or is peering into the dark void you call your personality really that painful?

I’m hoping that this post makes a difference, that maybe, just maybe, one pair of friends out there will shut the fuck up during the morning commute. But, most likely, nothing will change.

That is why I recommend that whatever you do, at all costs, if you see a bunch of construction workers walking down the platform, or two hipsters wearing skinny jeans, or a gaggle of girls eating Pinkberry, I implore you, for the love of God, stand down soldier. Just cut your losses, move down the platform, and pray that you don’t get stuck next to any obese sons-a-bitches.

God speed, commuter. God speed.