While commuting into work this week on a stalled M train, a man walked into the car I was sitting in and began playing an atonal, drawn-out cover of “When the Saints Go Marching In” on the harmonica. He interrupted himself a few times to beat box directly into the instrument and held notes that I can only describe as the piercing squeal a dog makes when you accidentally step on their paw. Because the New York City subway system is crumbling, I was subject to this monstrosity for a good 15 minutes. When he finally exited, I turned my head to notice a giant shit stain on the seat far too close where I had plopped down. It was dry and unscented, but I saw life pass before my eyes. (I was wearing a skirt! My bare ass almost made contact!) Somehow, that was not the most horrible thing I’ve ever seen on public transportation. It doesn’t even crack the top five.
And now I want to know about the most horrible thing you’ve seen on a bus/tram/train/monorail/subway/underground/metro/etc. Just think of all the possibilities: Dicks, shits, piss, puke, an unhealthy combination of a few. I’ve never seen a dude masturbate on a bus, but it’s only a matter of time before I do. If you have, you have to tell us.
But before we get to that, let’s look at last week’s winners. Here are your most chaotic Super Bowl Sunday stories.
slowtobond witnessed a stabbing!!!!!!!!!!
At the 2011 Super Bowl party I went to, the lone Steelers fan got a knife thrown into his abdomen and had to get stitches. We didn’t think his ex-girlfriend would actually do it, but booze.
I don’t know shit about sports, but I know a good story. MahlersFifth tells a good story:
I had just given birth to my second baby. She burst out of me so fast, my doctor didn’t even make it to the hospital in time, instead he ran into the delivery room, where I was already holding my daughter in my arms. He said, “fuck me!” and I said, “oh no, Doctor, fuck ME!” because there was no time for anesthesia and she literally blew my crotch out and I lost so much blood it was nuts. Honestly, my husband nearly was the one who delivered her before nurses ran in. (I remember saying the next day, “if it weren’t for the fact that I am holding our baby, I would swear I had been in a *very* peculiar accident, and am a patient in the hospital for a severe crotch injury.”)
Now my husband is a huge football fan, was a star on his high school team and he won a full-ride and played all four years at a major University. He is very passionate about the sport, and especially about his hometown Chicago Bears.
So once the baby and I are settled, and they have finished putting me back together, humpty-dumpty style, he leaves the hospital to go next door to the Walgreens to get beer, yes, truly.
And who does he run into? MIKE DIKTA.
My husband starts yelling at him, “Coach, Coach! I just had a baby girl! she’s BEAUTIFUL! Can you believe it, Coach?? It’s a GIRL!!!!” And Coach was full of congratulations and laughing at my husband’s exuberance and pride.
He basically had his daughter blessed by Mike Dikta. When we left to go home the next day, it was Super Bowl Sunday. And the Bears were playing! He sat there, cheering for his team, re-enacting his every word with Ditka to anyone who would listen, holding our baby like a football and beaming like the proudest Dad, while I sat on a latex glove that I had filled with water and froze, in order to sooth my broken crotch, and waited for my milk to come in, and ate Portillos.
The Bears didn’t win that Super Bowl, but that was for sure my favorite and most memorable Super Bowl. (And our baby girl turns 14 tomorrow!!!)
Football ruined tequila, and the ability to wear clothing, for poor Zukka:
Whoooooo boy. SO: I used to live in a really big apartment in the Lower East Side of Manhattan- huge living room, great big TV, all that jazz, so my friends and I would host a Super Bowl party at our place. My friend Tyrese and his girlfriend always came, and she made these homemade wings and homemade bacon-blue cheese guacamole that was just the best.
Anyways, that’s not all that Tyrese contributed: he always brought a bottle of delicious, really smooth tequila called Camarena Silver. Very tasty! He and I had a longstanding tradition: every time the AFC Team in the Super Bowl got a penalty he would do a shot of Camarena, and every time the NFC Team got a penalty I would do a shot. This, IN ADDITION to all the rest of the stuff I’d be drinking- beers and whatnot.
Now, we come to Super Bowl XLVII, between the Baltimore Ravens (AFC) and the San Francisco 49ers (NFC). This was 6 years ago. If I remember correctly, the 49ers committed like 15 or 20 penalties during the game. So that’s 15-20 shots of tequila for Zukka. PLUS beer. So, so much beer to wash down those delicious-bacon/blue cheese-guacamole-covered wings.
I get ABSOLUTELY FUCKING HAMMERED. I am blacking out, at some point I take my clothes off and am rolling on the floor. My very very good friend, whom I was living with at the time, has a video of me rolling on the floor, naked in my underwear, trying and failing to recite the ABCs. He has assured me that if I ever get married this video will be played as part of the celebrations.
Because of all this, I have a very hard time drinking tequila. If I even smell tequila, I get a gag reflex. My throat tightens up and is all HEY FUCK YOU BUDDY, YOU’RE NOT PUTTING THAT POISON IN HERE ANYMORE, YOU JACKASS. Which sucks because I love tequila, but doing shots of tequila can be quite difficult now (although, to be fair, why the fuck would a 31 year old be doing shots of tequila?! I should at least be moving on up to whiskey, right?)
And for every good drunk story, there’s an even sillier high story. Like this one, courtesy womanaroundthecity:
So I’m 18 and it’s the first time the Giants are in the Super Bowl in my remembered lifetime (I was 1 in 1991), and everyone I know is ecstatic. I’m born and raised in NYC (Manhattan), and almost everyone I know is a Giants fan. My friend’s parents are hosting a party for their friends, but she invites about six of us to come over and watch in her room while the adult-adults watch in their living room. One of my friend’s brings edibles, something that I had never tried before. Because I had smoked before, I did not realize how long it would take for the cookie to set in. Honestly, I think my friend who brought them was the only person who did know what to expect. So we’re watching the game, assuming nothing is happening, when it seems like we all realize together that football is actually quite similar to ballet, with leaps and twists and surprising amounts of grace. And now the giggles have set in and we realize we are definitely very, very high, and we are very lucky that it’s halftime.
Except during half time, my friend’s dad comes in to the room and looks at her and asks “have you seen your grandma?” And we all stop giggling and it feels like there is a 30 second silence as we all stare horrified, wondering where she could have gone, did she leave the building, do we need to form a search party, etc. Finally my friend asks, in what sounds like the most tentative voice ever, “is she lost?” And her dad, bless him, stares at us all like we’re demented as we are clearly waiting in extreme tension for his answer. “No,” he says, “I just wanted to know if you’d said hello.” I don’t know how we didn’t get in trouble for being obviously intoxicated, as we all started laughing hysterically the second he shut the door behind him.
The Giants won, which was unbelievably exciting, and on the cab ride home later that night I watched hundreds of people streaming out of bars still cheering their lungs out over the game. But we’re not heathens, so nothing got Philly level, it was just beautiful revelry and one of the highest highs I’ve ever felt in my life.
Get ready to barf.