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Mexican Standoff Wrong sides of the tracks: Ms. Subway vs. The Ogre. Ms. Subway Cooler than a polar bear’s toenails, the MTA isn’t breaking a sweat about the series of public relations train wrecks that have left the New York transportation authority’s credibility a twisted mass of scorched metal and frayed switches. No, they have Ms. Subway, otherwise known as Caroline Sanchez-Bernat of Elmhurst, Queens, a woman whose scepter sprinkles pixie dust from Parkchester to Canarsie. After a 28-year hiatus under which Gothamites rode the rails ungoverned, Her Majesty has been crowned with the task of debunking every mendacious myth cooked up by politicking haters and homeless riders alike; she rides the rails instructing passengers on how to enjoy the small things in a commuter's life: the trains’ quirky timetable, the gruff conductor and the "Will it never end? This is wild, but fun!" price increases. In Ms. Subways’ subterranean fiefdom, untamed yutes eagerly offer up seats to the crippled, meth addicts douse themselves in potpourri before propping themselves against poles for flittering-eyed catnaps and corpulent commuters unable to waddle past turnstiles without brushing their blubber are banned 4 life. Standing on the Franklin Avenue Shuttle platform (once-tagged “Stick-Up Shuttle” by those crafty Crown Heights spin-doctors), Ms. Subway admits with furrowed brows that a little house cleaning remains. But with the release of her forthcomeing novel, "The Ms. Subways Guide to Subway Etiquette," Her Highness will issue a proclamation demanding that every MTA line be whitewashed in Upper East Side decorum. The Ogre Lurching down the aisle on a packed subway car, this oversized cousin of the troll claws at his festering red, bald skull and demands that all passengers carrying the “juicy pussy” step forward and receive some monstrous penetration. The women on board this express A-train stare away and the Ogre, wiping a claw full of drool on his soiled britches, turns to a Manhattan Portage-toting, ipod-wearing Fort Greene man and inquires if the Mekong Delta stop is local. The Ogre is a tragic figure, his DNA a mummy wrap of painful strains from eight million New Yorkers fucked by the MTA. On the Ogre express, decent denizens like Ms. Subway are groped, slashed with box cutters and then charged an extra two dollars for transferring trains to get to Columbia Presbyterian Hospital. The Ogre, splashed in urine and hauling trash bags of trash, spends the workday violently shuttling between boroughs, embodying the pain that every rider has experienced. He rides for those who have sweated through blouses and dress shirts on a steamy stalled-out train and gnashes his incisors, howling at the conductor’s announcements for every woman who has been rubbed up on by a thin-mustached Staten Island guido. The Ogre crawls under -- not hops -- the subway turnstile for unemployed riders whose train never picked them up in time for their big interview at the Red Hook Domino Sugar factory. The Ogre’s commute isn’t civil; it’s grimy and torturous. The Winner New York's scoundrels pickpocket earnest Hasidics for $7 Fun Passes and stations doubling as Navaho smoke-lodges leave morning commuters' lungs and linens musky with mesquite, but the duplicitous dirtbags at the MTA continue to hike fares even as they threaten to scale back service. Ms Subway may have an ass so fat that you can see it from the front, but her coronation is just more buffoonery from the same chuckleheads who attempted to pull the plug on the C-Train after a careless vagrant caused a small greasefire while sautéing rats on his hibachi. And the moment she instructs The Ogre not to take up an extra seat with his garbage bag full of body parts ripped from Chinese battery-merchants is the instant beauty gets forcibly raped by the beast. Read more articles in Mexican Standoff » |
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