This morning, on my way to work, I made my usual transfer to the 4 train. Seeing an empty bench, I was about to sit down when I noticed a fairly serious shit (as in feces) smell. The bench looked clean, so I figured the girl in the corner was having some kind of diaper explosion and decided to deposit my body elsewhere, settling into the bench across from her.

Sitting there, with the smell still hitting me, I looked again and noticed that the edge of the seat was smeared with nasty, toxic diarrhea. Splattered and smeared—god knows why. The girl was sitting just outside the range of it, but seemed oblivious. Subways just smell bad sometimes.

Soon after, the train pulled into a station and when the doors opened, people flowed in, gunning for a seat. Noticing the stench, they checked the top of the bench and then sat, completely missing the fecal death smeared on the sides.

I sat there, watching them wrinkle their noses at the smell of their morning commute, stifling laughter as they rose and exited the train, the backs of their legs marked with the contents of some crazy fuck’s bowels.

Today is going to be a good day. I can smell it already.

This morning as I was coming down the stairs to the subway platform, a tad hungover from a wine smorgasborg that lasted pretty late, I noticed this really big guy holding the world’s cutest, smallest dog, standing around and waiting for the train to come.

I mean, this dog was small. The man was holding him under his arm on the side that wasn’t facing me, so all I could see of the little bugger was his head. Seriously, this beast was absolutely, jaw-droppingly adorable.

Now normally I really don’t talk to strangers. I’m not the type of person who pets other people’s animals or comments on them. Truth told, I actively avoid strange dogs in public because all they really want to do is sniff my crotch and bark at me. Who wants that (at least in public)? However, this little pocket-dog, this pint-sized package of Pokemon-like cuteness was just too much to pass up. I started walking over, a big dumbass grin on my face.

This big guy saw me coming, slipping and sliding in my own drool and practically falling down, tripping over my own tongue with semi-crazed eyes locked onto his pint-sized pet. He shot me a look of suspicion that I well knew is reserved for crackheads that look like they’re about to come up and talk to you. It’s a look that says, “I will go ghetto. I will hit you so hard, your kids will be born dizzy. Go drink some antifreeze, motherfucker. Leave me alone.” Anyone who lives in New York City knows of this glare that I speak of.

I wasn’t to be stopped. I had to see this dog. Once I was up close and he saw that I was reasonably well-dressed, clean and obviously not a homeless crazy person, the man would undoubtedly understand that I too, was a fellow miniature dog lover (well, I was one now that I’d spotted the little fucker) and he would relax and even let me pet his dog and everything would be fine if not slightly gay.

Finally, I reached the guy, stopping before him, grinning like a busload of Down Syndrome kids after a Teletubbies marathon. “I just cannot believe how utterly cute that dog is. What breed is he? Is he friendly?”, said I.

The man looked at me like I was naked, smeared head to toe in my own feces, offering to impregnate his mother. “Get the fuck outta here”, he grunted to me as he shifted his weight and turned away from me.

It was then that I noticed that the world’s most adorable doggie’s head was actually the handle of some stupid novelty umbrella that the guy had tucked under his arm. It was made out of plastic and I was officially the most retarded person in New York. I slunk away to the other end of the platform.

Always wear your glasses.

This morning as I was riding the subway to work, I noticed an old man sitting across from me, or rather, I smelled him first and noticed him second. Trying not to be obvious and pretending to be squinting at the map behind him, I checked him out.

He was old, homeless and crazy looking. His clothes were filthy. His pant-legs tattered. He’d kicked off his shoes onto the floor and his feet were so black and swollen, I wondered if he’d actually be able to get them back on. His shirt was unbuttoned, displaying a mass of white chest hair and an impressive slab of gut, hanging out onto his lap. There was a hell of a lot of dandruff of a frightening flake size residing on his shoulders. He was nasty.

I’m not sure where my fascination with the homeless and insane comes from. I think it’s probably a safe bet that it all stems from me being such a neurotic sociophobe. I look at them and search for myself and not suprisingly, I see similarities. Also, it can be entertaining. That may sound cruel, but considering the probable fact that your children will be poking fun at my smelly, homeless ass on the train, thirty years from now, I feel like I have a right to indulge in bum-watching. Some people watch birds, daveb likes the homeless crackheads and schizos. Each to his own, I guess.

As I sat there trying to be inconspicuious while fishing out my cell phone, hoping to take a picture (I collect photos of the homeless), his eyes locked with mine and I got busted. I smiled and nodded at him. “Fuck you…pooper!” came his reply.

A little startled, I replied with a genial, “Good morning, how ya doin’?” and flashed him the million dollar smile grandmothers and shih-tzus the world over fear and whisper about in the dark of night.

“Stick yer finger in ass and tell me how you doin’, cocksucker!” Mister Personality was showing the love. He returned my smile, minus almost all of his teeth. I noticed that was a considerable amount of what was either food or vomit in his beard. Mesmerizing!

“Well, I’m a bit reticent to do that, if only because we’re in public, but honestly, it’s just not my thing, so I gotta say no to that one, but thanks for the suggestion, buddy!”, said I, throwing him a wink.

He squinted at me, his brain, or what was left of it, chewing over my response. Then, with a huff and jerk of his shoulders, he launched into a tirade of “cocksuckers”, “motherfuckers” and “assholes” intersperced with vague, illucid threats off violence muffled into his beard directed seemingly at no one in particular. The fun’s over, I thought to myself and went back to my book.

As the train came to the next stop, the guy stood up or more like fell upright, if that’s possible, looked me in the eye and said, “Well, gotta go. Take care, bud.” and left the car.

It made my morning.