10 Things You Should Never Do on the Subway

When the subway is the main form of transportation, a lot of interesting aspects of life are injected into your daily routine, whether you like it or not. You quickly learn correct etiquette, what people to avoid, and how to efficiently get where you're trying to go. Basically, you learn what you should or shouldn't do. This is about the latter. Dave Chapelle might have had you doubled over in laughter by talking about masturbation on a subway, but that shit really happens. Don't stoop to the level where you're doing that or onoxiously rapping curse words in four-year-olds' faces. These are 10 Things You Should Never Do on the Subway.

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Sometimes those cool breakdancing-type cats get a little aggressive with their moves and employ the train car rails. Swinging wildly seems cool. Hitting an old lady in the face ain't. Relax with the acrobatics.

Express trains are great. However, after a few beers downtown, that quick ride to Times Square can easily end in Wakefield, if you fall into boozy slumber. Don't know anything about Wakefield? Us either.

This is a trap. Cute blonde Swedes with open maps begging for your cocksure suggestions of the hippiest places in town. Spare us, Don Juan, that game is tired. So is attempting to pick up karma points by giving direction to a hopeless midwestern family. Allow the Johnson clan to discover the cold, hard facts of the city the same way your hipster friends in Bushwick did—on their fucking own.

Imagine the hands that rub all over ever surface of every subway car every day. Then take a hard look at your styrofoam-housed Chinese meal. One, why do it to yourself? Two, none of your fellow passengers need a new odor mixing with the already pungent concoction of 9 hours of work on 53 bodies and yesterday's urine.

Although New York is basically a santized urban playground, don't get it twisted-stick up kids will serve you for stupidity. Should you be headed toward 23rd on the C or E, bracing yourself for a swift walk to Scores, keep that crisp stack of dollars to yourself. The strippers will prefer it in their panties than in the hands of some intelligent hoodlum.

Guess what? We hate subway performers. Their struggle makes us anxious. Their vocal tone, well, that just makes us upset. Unless you have mariachi accompaniment—those dudes rule-keep finger—snapping '50s classics to the barber shop.

Sure, the Big Apple is a romantic place. But, keep it in your pants until you get into a Central Park carriage. We're too busy to give two fucks about your impending nuptuals and don't respect a scene-maker.

Danger often lurks in the quiet cab. Once the doors close, you'll notice the error of your ways. Is it summer? Too bad for you-the AC is out. Want to read? The transport gods have decided you should ride in darkness. Worst of all, sad to say, the lone empty car often has a hidden, shit-smeared resident, too.

This goes out to you, shaggy-haired white guy. Nothing makes us (similarly shaggy-haired white guys) more uncomfortable than a few out-of-place rap lyrics getting shine out of context. Lip sync if you must, but please keep (if you have to have them) to completely private settings. Loud, obscene lyrics are also often misguidedly spewed by struggle rappers attempting to push mixtapes on unsuspecting middle-aged pencil pushers. Our advice here is the same as for our shaggy-haired white friends, keep it down and find a new venue.

Hey, insane homeless guy. We know you've probably not felt the sweet embrace of a woman for some time. Still, crawling on the floor with one hand in your trousers sneaking peaks up commuting secretary's skirts is the WRONG way to get back in the game. Have class, for everyone's sake.