New York is a city made for wandering. Though slow strolling along city sidewalks invites sneers and shoves from natives, aimless journeying into unfamiliar neighborhoods is nothing short of life-affirming. Such a sojourner breathes in the forgotten delights of a city that has yet to stop living. And that person is rewarded with rejuvenation.
But then, our protagonist, our Odysseus, must go home. He descends below the city's surface into dark tunnels where the bizarre awaits. He stands on the platform in anticipation of his iron chariot while thoughts of splendor, remnants of his travels mixed with impurities about his Athenian wife and trove of concubines, occupy his mind. He is oblivious to his surroundings. The train roars into the station and welcomes its new passengers with open doors. Odysseus, lost in his own musings, fails to notice he boards this particular train car alone even though there were scores of commoners on that platform with him.
And suddenly, aboard that subterranean vessel, he is seized back into reality as he realizes he is under attack. But he noticed a moment too late. The steel doors have shut behind him, while onlookers in the adjacent car watch in knowing anticipation, and some with typical New Yorker glee, of the imminent onslaught. For them, it’s like watching a Trojan approach a woman from behind at the bar, knowing full well she’s a Medusa on the front.
Our hero, trapped on this speeding torture chamber, quickly takes stock of his surroundings. He is joined in this peril by a small family of ignoramus from the country side, perhaps Kentuckia. The fools stand before Odysseus, hands covering their faces paralyzed in horror by their fate. There is no hope for them, especially in those khaki shorts. He must save himself.
Looking beyond the family, he acknowledges the source of their pain sitting in the corner. A disheveled old man, cloaked in tattered black, he emanates the awful mist that permeates the car and besieges our protagonist, or rather, our protagonist's nose. It is the most wretched and vile stench to ever befall these lands. It grips the passengers and squeezes their lungs shut. For Odysseus, it is even worse than the foulness he inhaled when Dyonidas thrust him into a mound of minotaur dung at the battle of Theoda. It is worse then the rotting flesh piles at the bottom of Xerxes' caverns. The stench is even worse than that of the Cyclops' Sunday morning haletosis. It is the vile smell of pure evil itself.
"What wicked wizardry is this?" Odysseus wonders. "This unassuming man mutters to himself. Perhaps it is a spell he's chanting. Or maybe directives to his invisible army of stench gremlins, stenchlins if you will...Oh gods, it smells like butt cheese in here. I think I just threw up a little in my mouth."
But Odysseus has stared adversity in the eyes before and does not succumb so easily. He covers his nostrils and breathes only sparsely through his mouth. If he can minimize his intake of the rotten-egg-in-a-diaper stench, he can survive by waiting only a few moments to the next stop. Our hero positions himself at the opposite end of the car from the beacon of B.O. and presses up against the cold steel doors. His face turns red as each second he endures feels like an eternity in Hades.
Suddenly the death car halts abruptly, and the Kentuckians fall over and shatter into a million finger licking pieces. The doors slide open and out races Odysseus onto the station platform, gulping in the fresh air, his eyes welling with tears, and yelling at the top of his lungs, “Gods! It smells like Sex Panther in there! It’s quite a formidable scent!”
And with no time to waste, he sprints around, weaving through other passengers and hops into the adjacent car just before the doors close. He made it. The Ol’ Switcheroo never fails. He peers through the train window and sees in the next car a new set of country folk, trapped in that chamber of death, suffocating from ass inhalation. “These poor people. They don’t know that that car is run by the ATA—the Ass Transit Association. May Zeus have mercy on their souls.”
The bearded old man in the corner laughs to himself in triumphant pleasure. For only $2.00 he’s found himself a spacious new home complete with Promethean fire in the winter and the winds of Zephyr in the summer. And moreover, he gets to torture the very same wealthy city dwellers who often neglect his existence and deny their complicity in his destitution. Retribution indeed. Little do they know, this man is Zeus himself. Oh that Zeus, always the prankster.
Decree CCXV for riders of subterranean chariots: Never board a seemingly empty train when the cars beside it are packed, lest you too find your nostrils besieged by odors more foul than a Gorgon fart saved in an air tight jar for 5 thousand years. Should you find yourself in this predicament, your only chance is to perform the Ol’ Switcheroo. Otherwise, you will smell like poo the rest of the day. It’s kind of like after having Korean barbecue, except that you don’t get a delicious meal first, and you don’t smell like bbq, you smell like poo.
Cats consume more fecal matter in a year than the average human produces in a week.
Philadelphia received the moniker "City of Brotherly Love" in 1932 when homosexual incest reached a peak during the Great Depression.
