The Pregnant Woman Refused My Seat, and Another Guy Took It

I remember reading a really great post from the Chocolate Belly recently about pregnant women not getting the seat privileges on mass transit -- being lumped under the moniker of disabled. The post also posed the question as to whether one would give up his, or her seat to a pregnant woman.

Not to pat myself on the back, but I am a big proponent of this. It makes me feel good, and is respectful to the woman and the precious cargo she carries. But I've been burned before, and last night I got burned again.

On an ultra-packed, standing-room-only 5:38 train out of Penn, I had a seat - a prime commodity, like beachfront property in the Hamptons. I saw a woman get on the train, who looked pregnant. She wasn't showing amazingly, but she was pregnant.

I deliberated for a few seconds, and got up. I tapped her on the shoulder, and offered her the seat.

She turned me down. It turned out she was getting out in a few stops and would probably be harder to get up after sitting down.

I didn't want to sit back down; that's kinda rude. In case she needed the seat, the offer would stand for as long as I was on the train. Turns out, so did I - stand, that is.

What's worse than that?

Some other bonehead who happens to call himself a man gets on the train, spies the seat, and claims it. Not once did he consider the fate of this woman with child.

What is wrong with people these days? There were many men sitting down, and none of them even flinched to give her the seat.

Men: Give up your seats, before you give up your souls
Pregnant Women: Take the seat.

Beware the MumbleHiss!

Commuting on the Long Island Rail Road is one, giant ball of annoying. Late trains, smelly trains, crowded trains, fares that pay no observance to the laws of gravity…but perhaps there is no single greater annoyance than the MumbleHiss.

Oh, you’ve never heard of this creature? Consider yourself lucky. It is surely like none I’ve ever heard before.

Don’t get me wrong; the MumbleHiss, like Frankenstein’s monster, is well intended. But it is grating to every sense and common sense, nonetheless. It typically sits next to, across from, or behind me with its best friend — which could be another person or a smartphone. It talks in tones loud enough to be heard, but low enough so that only “Mumble, mumble, mumble, hiss, hiss,” becomes discernible. The mantra is hypnotic, and I find myself transcendentally transported to some suburban soccer field as I desperately start to to care about  what is being discussed.

“Mumble, mumble, hiss, hiss.”

Unfortunately, this creature is protected by a bunch of crazy liberal laws devised hundreds of years by some socialists. Until we can get these laws changed, or eradicated completely, we must learn to coexist with the MumbleHiss.

So, when you prepare for your morning commute, make sure you pack a pair of earphones, lest you become the MumbleHiss’s next victim. Of course, don’t turn your MP3 player too high, or you may turn into a BoomBoomChit. You know what that is, don’t you?

Rock Out With Your Socks Out (or, Is This a Shoes-Optional Car?)

C’mon, dude! I didn’t need to see your tube-socked feet this morning propped up on the train seat, like you were waiting for a pedicure or foot massage.

I don’t know where you or those feet have been, and I’m not really interested in finding out. Where were you raised, at Thom McCann? Do you drop shoe and assume this position of comfort wherever you go?

Give us all a break; put those feet back inside your nasty New Balance sneakers, where they belong.

OK, I must admit, I’m a bit jealous. I’d love to have my size 12s unfettered from their leather prison. But something deep inside of me, not sure whether it’s a nature thing or a nurture thing, tells me I just shouldn’t do it. Cause, there are, like, other people around, dude!

Maybe you’re some out-of-touch, spoiled socialite on his way back from a party in the Hamptons. OK. I get it. If that’s the case, why not go the whole way? Take off the tubes, too, and let the all the salt, fat, and alcohol you ingested last night escape all over that seat.

Now, where’s the conductor? He makes 50 announcements a day urging us to kindly not put our feet on the seat, and then does nothing when he encounters the violator. Coward!

What’s the punishment for such a crime? A stern look, maybe? A little slap on this little piggy or that little piggy? What should be done is to dip your feet in honey, and then into a swarming horde of red ants. Beats scalding butter, though.

Well, thanks for grossing me out this morning, Mr. Tube Sock Guy.