Working in New York City, which is the greatest city on the planet, is all kinds of awesome. There can be no debate about that fact.

Commuting to New York City, which has the longest average commuting time in the nation, sucks ass. There can be no debate about that fact as well.

My commute, which I briefly mentioned in the feature article “ZubazPants.com Goes To Work,” has progressively gotten worse as time wears on. When I wrote the feature, I was a bright-eyed, freshly hired employee to the American work force. “Matt Fishman: Pursuer of the American Dream,” I thought. Now I’m just “Matt Fishman: Angry Young Man.” Working in New York City gives you a tough edge, which is famous worldwide.

I will take you through my daily commute, which combined with the train and walking to the office, is an hour. However, there are numerous obstacles in my way, certain groups of people, if you will. I have labeled them as “gangs.” I hate every gang and wish they would somehow die or be swallowed up by the Earth.

GANG: The Cellys
TURF: Long Island Railroad Train
HOW TO IDENTIFY: Wearing suit or latest apparel from Urban Outfitters, talks loudly

There is nothing I hate more than men talking on cell phones “just to talk.” Do you know that before cell phones, only girls called each other on the phone “just to talk”? Now men do it non-stop, and we, as a sex, have lost a little bit of our testicle mass as a result. It’s true. Our balls have shrunk a little bit because we have embraced and accepted men calling each other “just to talk.” I sat behind a fucking kid who dialed up his friend to talk about how great he did on online poker last night. Yeah, that conversation couldn’t have waited. I really enjoyed having to listen to the kid go, “And this guy went all in and I was like ‘Hell nah,’ and I showed him my full house, right? And he signed off and shit and I was like ‘Yeah.’”

The Cellys’ phones go off non-stop. Their ring tones are incredibly loud and obnoxious, like the theme from Superman. Hey, John Williams composed a great score, but when it goes off at a loud decibel and it’s not even 8:30 in the morning, it loses its magical luster. The Celly is always embarrassed when its phone goes off, too. The Celly will mumble, “Oh shit, oh shit…” and scramble to find the phone, hoping to answer it quickly so their ring tone will shut off. Why make it such a stupid tone if it’s going to go off? Are you surprised that the ring tone you chose RANG when someone CALLED you? That is the point of ring tones if I’m not mistaken.

Cellys love to hear themselves talk. Why else would they have non-work related conversations so early in the morning? Who the fuck are they calling? They’re calling other Cellys. They’re talking to the other obnoxious assholes on other trains. I don’t want to hear you talk, Celly. Guess what? You’re not in your own little dimension where you’re the only person alive. That dude next to you? He can hear everything you’re saying and he doesn’t appreciate it, no matter how much he pretends that he is only reading his paper, blocking out the outside world. If there were no laws, that dude next to you would stab through the nose for being an irritating fuck.

Those Cellys make the ride to New York City unbearable. Naps are out of the question, because the moment you doze off, you’ll hear The Pussycat Dolls singing “Don’tcha wish your girlfriend was hot like me” at a volume that could wake up a dead man burst forth from a Celly’s phone. It’ll happen every time - I guarantee it.

When the train arrives seven minutes late (if I’m lucky), I have to make my way through Penn Station. I can usually weave through the crowds without much trouble, but the people waiting for the escalators slow me down.

GANG: The Lazy Asses
TURF: Penn Station exits
HOW TO IDENTIFY: Idiotic stare

Huge lines waiting for the escalators block the exit to 7th avenue and 34th street. What I don’t understand is that there is no line for the stairs. The people waiting for the escalators are The Lazy Asses. The Lazy Asses are living proof why America is so overweight. They would rather wait several minutes to get on an escalator then walk right up to the stairs and climb out to the street. It would save them tons of time and it would be good exercise, too.

Sometimes I get annoyed when a tremendously fat person climbs the stairs and goes really slow, because their asses are so huge it is impossible to get around. But at the same time I’m glad they’re at least making an effort. So I’m conflicted.

Once I make it to the street, I have to deal with another gang.

GANG: The Tourists
TURF: 34th Street, Fifth Avenue
HOW TO IDENTIFTY: “I Love NY” T-Shirts, non-New York accent

New York City is a huge tourist destination and I respect that, but I wish the tourists had more self-respect. One time I saw a family of three walking down the street wearing “I Love NY” shirts, “I Love NY” hats, and possibly “I Love NY” socks. The father had the classic map that he couldn’t fold back into place and it was just a mess. They might as well have replaced the “I Love NY” with “Please Mug Us.” Even I felt like mugging them, but I left my .9mm at home AGAIN.

The Tourists tend to think of New Yorkers as rude. It isn’t so much that we’re rude – we’re just in a hurry. It’s nothing personal, but you know all those people you see walking in New York City? They’re not walking for their health. They have to be somewhere. Unlike most of the obese towns and cities in this country of ours, New Yorkers use their legs as a means of transportation and we don’t stop until we get to our destination. The same cannot be said for The Tourists.

A Tourist likes to suddenly stop in the middle of a crowded sidewalk and look around, which often causes someone to bump into him or her. The person then says, “Learn how to walk, retard” and The Tourist now thinks that all New Yorkers are assholes. This leads me to believe that The Tourists think that New York City is simply an amusement park that just so happens to have a city theme. It’s not. This place is an actual city, and by city, I don’t mean Youngstown, Ohio. New York City is a motherfucking megalopolis. While the sites of New York City amaze The Tourists, it’s just a place where me and millions of other people work. So please stare in awe in a less crowded area, Tourists.

GANG: The Bums
TURF: Anywhere that isn’t occupied by another Bum and/or another Bum’s urine
HOW TO IDENTIFY: Do I have to explain?

Never give a Bum money. Never do it unless you’re drunk one night and want to dispose of some change. Every Bum is a drug addict, a mental patient, or an asshole. I say asshole because whenever I’m drunk and give Bums change, they never thank me. They just take it and move on, like they did YOU the favor by taking the money.

Bums get in the way. They love to hold signs that describe their plight, but the signs are false. Oh really, you need money to get a bus ticket back home? I’m amazed you’ve been holding that sign for a year now if that’s the case. Oh, you’re a Vietnam veteran? I didn’t know Vietnam veterans are only just turning 25 this year. Oh, you want money to buy booze and drugs? I see what you’re doing, you clever bird. You’re thinking someone will laugh and be like, “Well, at least you’re not lying!” and give you money. Sorry, but that’s an old joke and about 5,000 other Bums have the same sign.

GANG: Girls With Attitude (GWA)
TURF: Wherever they can prove themselves in this male-dominated world
HOW TO IDENTIFY: Preppy business attire, ice-cold stare

GWA are a tough of bunch cookies. These bitches make their own way through the crowds, over-priced and shitty tasting coffee in hand. These women walk with speed, which leads me to believe that what George Costanza once said on Seinfeld was true: good-looking women walk faster than most people. What’s bad is that they sometimes spill that piping hot brown shit known as coffee all over your face. Will the GWA care? No, and do you know why? HUH? ‘Cause they got attitude, man. They ain’t apologizing to you or to anybody.

I don’t know how GWA walk so fast. You can hear their heels clopping like a horse from a block away, yet they still move like faster than the Road Runner being chased by Wile E. Coyote. I also get dirty looks from the GWA, like they’re preparing a rejection line in their heads in case I hit on them. No offense GWA, but when I’m trying to rush to work, the last thing I’m thinking about is sex. Well, maybe next to last. Well, maybe it’s the second thing I’m thinking about. Okay, I am thinking about sex, but I don’t have the guts to say anything. You gals already give me your answer with your ice-cold stares.

I would make this article longer, but I have to get up early for, well, work. All the shit you just read here I have to deal with five days a week. It’s really not so bad. You just have to keep your wits about you and remember that you’re in the greatest city in the world.

But I swear to God, if one cell phone goes off on the train tomorrow, I’m going to pull out my .9mm and unleash the dogs of war.

Questions? Comments? Don’tcha Wish Your Girlfriend Was Hot Like Me? E-mail me at Fishman347@yahoo.com

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