Sleepride the whip! Sleepride the whip!

I'm no dentist, but I've seen my fair share of oral cavities. "Where?" you might ask, "Where can I get in on this hot face-hole action?" Where else but the New York City subway, where all unwanted bodily contact happens. All the time. All at once. Oh yeah. Really, there's nothing quite like being caught on the underground railroad, in the middle of a hot, humid July, and your sweaty arm unintentionally but yet inevitably brushes up against somebody else’s sweaty arm, only to discover that the meeting of your salty discharge and their salty discharge results in the adhesion of your gross arms like a pair of soggy velcro straps. Fucking gross. But I digress.

It's gaping mouths that we're talking about today. "Gaping mouths?" you ask. You probably don't pay them much mind during your daily commute, but they're out there, just daring you to do something about it. And I for one never back down from a physical challenge (my friends call me 'Double Dare' …and occasionally ‘Mark Summers’). Whether it’s the morning rush hour on the 7 Express or the gotta-get-home-for-Deal or No Deal dash on the N, you are bound to run into this unwelcome display of teeth and tongue. There’s always that passenger whose head is nodding to the rhythm of the train’s lullaby, and as their eyes fall asleep, their mouth yawns open…and stays that way. The perpetual oh-face of slumber.

I wonder what makes them sleep with their mouth open like that. They must be dreaming about sucking the tete of Yokozuna. Or maybe they’re trapped in a chocolate factory with Grandpa Joe, trying to fly by burping out Fizzy Lifting Drink. Or maybe their tongue is so heavy that they can’t help but let their jaw drop. And you know what they say about big tongues…big tongue socks. (ok, I admit that makes no sense, but c’mon, your laffing thinking about a wool sock over your tongue)

Have you ever been on the train at 2:43AM on a Thursday night? It’s like Attack of the Somniac Sojourners on that thing. You step into the train car and all you see are these contorted figures, hunched over, drooping into their seats, back of their heads tilted backwards till they’re touching their backs, with their faces aimed towards the ceiling and lips parted so wide you’d think they were feeding off the fluorescent light. And the chorus of snores coupled with the rock of the ride will only pull you into their REM-sleep ranks. Before you know it, it’s too late, you’ve missed your stop and wake up in a train yard in the Bronx. That’s right you bourgie too-afrad-to-pass-96th-street NYC transplant, The Bronx!

And when it happens to you, you realize how embarrassing it is to sleepride. You wake up to a dozen gawking eyes that shift away quickly to avoid revealing that they examined the contents of your food orifice thoroughly. Not to mention your mouth is drier than the Patrick Ewing’s legs and tastes just as bad.

From this painful lesson, I’ve taken it upon myself to do two generous things out of the compassion of my compassionate heart: 1) write this longwinded blog entry to warn New Yorkers of the dangers of sleepriding, and 2) place two curiously strong Altoids and a Listerine breath strip on the tongue-pillows of the mouth-beds I see on every train in the city. Occasionally I’ll substitute the Altoids with a Skittle, so you can taste the rainbow…the rainbow in my heart. And no need to thank me. For me, it’s like having a portable game of Operation wherever I go.

So dear reader, take heed of Subway Rider Rule #482: Sleepriding on the train is the easiest way to get a mouthful of surprises, either from me or from Boxcar Eddy, you know, the one without the thing we like to call “pants.” His mantra is: If you see something, spray something.