Tag Archives: commuters

Big league chewers

7 Mar

Dear gum chewers of planet earth,

Trust me, as a gum connoisseur, I appreciate the wonder of its chewy, bubble-blowin’, sugary fabulousness… but really, must I see your tonsils and directly into your esophagus while mistaking the sounds coming from your mouth as those of an elderly person going to town on a jar of peanut butter without their dentures? I mean, come on now. I know it’s hard to be an adult, but you might want to consider trying a teeny bit harder, so as to avoid looking like a moderately unbalanced farm animal (at least in public).


Allergic to you.xo


Please do not touch, lick, stroke or mount the exhibits

9 Feb

Dear commuters who rapidly caress the pole as if you are employee of the month at your local Happy Ending Rub ‘N Tug,

Although I’m aware that you probably don’t realize you are doing it, it’s definitely not very becoming (I assume my opinion would be drastically different if I were male, but… ya, nope).  Whether it’s because your gloves slide up and down, or it’s the constant slip of your sweaty palm, you look ridiculous.

I’m actually not so offended by the above part as I find it rather amusing. What bothers me is that when you do that, you touch my hand and/or finger and/or coat and/or leg, when I happen to be using the same pole or standing in your general area. Call me crazy, call me OCD, call me neurotic, call me whatever you want, but do.not.touch.me. I do not want your dirty gloves touching my hand. I do not want your sweaty palms touching my body. I do not want the surplus of  fuzz from your coat transferring on to mine. I do not want to pick your stray hairs off my coat. I do not want your backpack that smells deliciously of eggs, dirt, and peanut butter anywhere near my existence. I do not want to have to knock you out. Deal?


Allergic to you. xo

Brass Knuckles

25 Jan

Dear girl who wore brass knuckles on the subway,

After my initial shock, I’m finding myself torn between:

What the fuck?!, and

Good call, I’m mildly jealous.

In either case, good job coordinating them with your outfit. High five.


Allergic to you. xo


20 Jan

I’m going to pull a double whammy here, because frankly, I’m lazy.

Dear guy who used his snot as a hair styling product/girl who removed her eye crusties while wearing leather gloves,

Boogerboy: It was bad enough that you used the palm of your hand as kleenex multiple times.  Was it necessary to rub it in  your hair, which you then styled as if it was gel? Very attractive, rock star. Congratulations, you made me throw up in my mouth a little. I’ve also started to rethink my faith in humanity, but you know, whatever.

Crustygirl: I understand the concept of wearing gloves on transit so your bare hands don’t touch the germ infested pole. Unless you are obsessive, I would imagine that you don’t wash your gloves as often as you wash your hands.  That being said, how exactly might you wash your leather gloves? Think about it, how many times have you worn those gloves? How many door handles, poles, and other random slimy things have you touched since then? And then…. you stuck that glove… in.your.eye. And then… you touched the pole, where your eye crusty was deposited.  And then… Mr. Fancy-business-suit touched that same pole  on the same spot where you deposited your eye crusty.  And then… Mr. Fancy-business-suit used his teeth to remove his glove that touched the pole that touched your eye crusty.

Enough said (almost)…

I believe Boogerboy and Crustygirl would make a fine couple, and live infectiously ever after (with occasional visits from  Mr. Fancy-business-suit).

In all seriousness, if you are going to do this kind of thing, do it in private or at the very least make an effort to not draw attention to yourself. Nobody needs to see that.

Enough said (for real).


Allergic to you. xo

Pole Hoggers

26 May


Today’s topic: Pole hoggers.

Dear Mr. I’m-so-speacial-that-this-entire-pole-belongs-to-me-and-I-may-feel-the-need-to-rub-my-ass-against-it-as-I-lean,

News flash! You’re not that special.

Stop it.



Allergic to you. xo

So that pretty much explains it. Really.  I might (maybe) understand a child using the pole as a personal crutch, but a 40-something year-old man? No. Nadda. Nope.

You: Did it ever occur to you that maybe he needed the pole as support?

Me: Indeed, it did. But once I saw him balance his briefcase and coffee on his knee as he put his reading glasses back in his pocket, and then proceed to do an ass-jig against the pole to most likely scratch a persistent itch, I figured that probably was not the case.

You: Oh.

Me: *Slap!* I’m a tad violent today, just a tad.

Anyhoo, so there I am, reading my book and obviously not holding onto the pole as there was another woman beside me who needed it more.  She was struggling at best to find a place for her hand that didn’t touch the Pole Hogger, so I did my best to balance.

You: And what happened then? Well, in Whoville they say that the Grinch’s small heart grew three sizes that day.

Me: And then – the true meaning of Christmas came through, and the Grinch found the strength of *ten* Grinches, plus two!

That’s right, because as soon as the train screeched in the next stop, Mr. Pole H0gger jolted forward an inch (apparently, he’s not an ass-cheek flexing gold medalist). I shoved my entire body between him and the pole (not before shooting him my famous death-ray glare) and made proper space for the woman beside me to hold it. She nodded, he scowled, and then continued to do an ass-jig to the other side of the train, where he did the exact same thing. Moron.

Me: So that calls for some good karma, right?

You: Well…

Me: *Slap!* What do you know, anyways?

You: Okay, okay. Good karma. Good karma!

Me: Better.  That’s what I thought.

Rush hour

7 May

Dear Rush Hour Public Transit,

How I loathe you so.


Allergic to you. xo

I’m sure this will be a regular topic, seeing as everyday is a struggle on this mass people mover contraption.

Today’s topic: Rush hour.

It’s so wonderful when you leave an exhausting day at work, jump on the subway, only to find yourself sandwiched in between a random armpit, fartmaster 3000, and dude with backpack.

First of all, to dude with backpack: Use you’re judgment.  If the goddamn thing is three times the size of you, you might (just maybe) think about… I don’t know, taking it off.  I mean, is it really necessary to backpack body-check each time you inhale?

Second, fartmaster 3000:  You’re not fooling anyone.  I can still tell it’s you thanks to your very obvious ‘who done it’ looks.  By the way, you should probably stay away from whatever you’re eating, because, damn, it ain’t pretty when it’s blasted out of your ass.

And last but not least, my random armpit friend:  Although the first deodorant was put on the market in 1965, it was invented in 1888.  That’s more than enough time to get on that.  For real.  And if for some bizarro world reason you choose not to use it, please, I beg of you, keep those arms down.

So to cure myself from the ‘I’m-going-to-clock-one-of-these-mofos-straight-between-the-eyes’ blues, I chose to walk off my aggression rather than face the same situation on the bus ride home, and make a pit stop to the ever so enchanting LCBO that just opened down the street from me.

You: LCBO? What the hell is that?

Me: Translation: Booze! See, here in Canada (excluding the province of Quebec, those lucky bastards) we can’t go to our neighbourhood store, gas station or supermarket to get our buzz on, seeing as complete chaos would errupt and the world as we know it would end. No one would show up to work, holigans would take over the streets, pizza and wings would be consumed in mass quantities, the market would crash, and Canada would sink into the very center of earth.  The beavers and moose would migrate to the United States and consequently be the only reminder of our tragic downfall.  So, instead, the government controls our access (to avoid the above). Isn’t it grand?

On that note, my glass is lonely.

My GlassDrink me. Love me. Indulge me.

Me: Okay. You got it.

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