Trains are a great way to travel. They make lots of fun noises that you can listen to, and at rush hour, you can always get up-close and personal with a new friend (who happens to smell worse than a homeless man who sleeps in the dumpster of a fish restaurant in August).

Basically, train-time is the best time of your life.

The only thing better is the train station itself. Built in 1960, it looks like a combination between an industrial warehouse and dog shit. During rush hour, they manage to cram 100,000 happy train riders into a space designed for 100, and on a hot summer day, the combination of various body odors with the smell of stale piss -- inherent in all New York City transit hubs -- combine to produce the sensory coup-de-gras formerly only available in an Armenian cab.

When the train finally comes in, all 100,000 riders -- many of them two to three hundred pounds overweight (and riding the train because the seats are bigger than anything Dodge offers) -- wedge themselves in a mad-dash into the stairwells to the train platform, because regardless that the train has enough seats for everyone, nobody ever sits in the middle seat. If you do see someone who has squeezed themselves in the middle seat, feel sorry for the riders who are surely rubbing uncomfortably against that man -- they're probably contracting gonorrhea from him as we speak.

On the subway, a similar phenomena occurs where people will sit between two of the ass-dips that serve as seats, essentially reserving a seat for each of their large american ass-cheeks and creating a buffer zone, keeping the smelly hobos from easily sitting next to you.

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