Everyone who frequents this site knows that all of us here in the corporate offices of Jose el Retardo are pundits for public transportation, and as we are based mainly in the New York City area, the subway is the transportation of choice for most of us. As for myself, I use the subway, on average, twice daily, and generally find the experience to be a pleasant (if not sometimes crowded), efficient, and speedy way to traverse the urban landscape. Of course, whenever one injects him/herself into the general public, there are bound to be questionably fascinating scenarios unfolding around him/her from time to time. Mostly it comes in the form of conflict, whether the divergence is caused out of anger or mental illness (you’ve just got to LOVE crazy people quarrels, what with the spit and the fingernails, and the tin foil hats), but sometimes it comes in the form of swollen, pussy scabs.

For instance: the other day, I was on my way to somewhere (stop being so damn nosey, faithful reader), head down, rocking to the sounds of the new Radiohead album (which is pretty goddamned good, if you haven’t heard—In Rainbows—check it out), when a leg passed in front of my field of vision. A horrible leg. A disgusting leg. Presumably, a human leg. The human (?) male attached to the aforementioned monstrosity was wearing blue track pants with the typical double-white stripe up the seam, but had the right pant leg rolled up past the knee. And oh my lord…below the knee…

His right calf was inflamed to at least twice the circumference of the left, with huge bumps covering the shin and calf like the hideous calcifications that so disfigured John Merrick. The skin was shiny and tightly pulled across the shinbone, multi-colored with patches of red fading to ashy yellow. But the thing that really caught my eye was the HUGE FREAKING OPEN WOUNDS that covered the lower quarter of this ghastly appendage. Tinged white around the edges and juicy red in the middle, the wounds seemed to fester and bubble before my very eyes. As I stared mouth agape at this putrid mess, the man (who I now noticed walked with a cane), stopped walking, leaned over, and reached to correct his pant leg. “Oh good,” I thought, “cover that shit, bubba. Back to my music. Dooo do do doooo, dah dah dah…” Instead, he rolled the cuff higher.

Gentle reader, he wanted us to see.

As he passed me, I had to watch his slow progress. He stopped to lean against a subway pole (and for those of you unfamiliar with a NYC subway car, please note the picture to the left), and I shuddered to think of the hands that would soon be grasping this pole in the hours to come, looking to steady the body they were attached to, and hoping they would all be washed before aiding in the consumption of various tasty finger foods. His mouth began to move, so I removed my headphones (Koss Plugs, a great, inexpensive headphone) to see what this human-like creature had to say. He spoke quietly, so I could not hear his words, but as he spoke, a young woman—with black lipstick, so you know she must have been very with-it and cool—reached into her bag and pulled out a dollar to give to the patient (I call him this because goddamnit he should have been in the hospital getting care and not on the fucking SUBWAY), and my heart cried out for her fingers. “Oh no! Don’t touch him!” I almost cried aloud, but I bit back my words.

So he was begging for money. I should have known. Otherwise, he would have at least taken a minute to wrap some gauze around that stanky shit on his leg and pull his pants down to cover it. I swear to god, the NYC hobo population would carry their livers in a bucket if they thought they would get a fucking quarter for it.

Anyway, public transportation really does rock, and I urge all of you to use it more liberally.