While commuting, we've seen it all. From cabbies urinating in their cars, to homeless men taking dumps in the subway. Fights, and smells are part of our daily routine, but that all changed for me a few weeks ago.

A bunch of posters have been popping up in the subway lately. They've been hung by artist Jason Shelowitz. Unfortunately the MTA has asked him to take them down.

I guess the truth hurts.

Of the bunch, (see them here) this one is my favorite. Nothing annoys me more than subway preachers.

Oh, and apparently people clip their nails on the subway. That's fucking gross too.

If the person who saw this didn't have a phone with video capability, no one would believe it. It happened in England, on A1 near Wetherby. So far, it's only on YouTube. If a news outlet finds out what happens, I'll add a link.

Don't say it. Please don't say it. Not that. Anything else but that. Why did I make this call? Why did I offer? And then she said it. Those words I knew were coming, but dreaded so greatly.

"Can you pick me up a box of tampons?"

I'm fortunate to have an amazing commute. A large portion of my walk to work has me passing through the wooded knolls of Central Park, thus affording me some great views. I watch as the canines play in the dog run while their owners sip coffees and converse with the other owners. There are several park workers who walk along the paths and clean up trash and detritus, getting the area ready for the day's visitors. Homeless men come out of their magical wooded enclaves, replete with (I'm guessing) unicorns that fart rainbows and elves who sit on stumps and play Jethro Tull songs on their flutes. Finally, the fitness enthusiasts take to the streets to get their hearts pumping for several miles.

But it's what a small section of the runners do that baffles me.

I'm faking you out. By placing this rant in the "Commuting Suicide" section, it allows me to be seen in a light other than "total inhuman asshole"; a description both accurate and humbling. And upon reading this, you'll probably agree.

People in motorized wheelchairs need to go.

Still with me? Still want to read what this is all about? Gathering pitch forks, torches, and a map to my front door? Keep reading.

I'd like to thank the nice gal or guy or group of gals and guys who decided to augment the smell of my subway ride home tonight.

Normally at the place I switch trains every night, there's a constant stench of "guy sleeping on the bench who hasn't showered in a year or two." Most days it's P U (capital, bold, and large type)

But tonight the subway platform smelled like marijuana.

I don't know if the nice culprits had had enough of smelly guy smell, or they were just in the mood for a mighty potent joint, but my commute home was very pleasant. Standing there, breathing deeply, I couldn't have been happier the train was delayed.

I did have trouble reading the paper but Portishead on the iPod got me home alright. Now, as I settle in for a night of 24 and Daily Show I have only one thought - dude, what to order????

I had a nice place picked out to ring in 2009. 30 blocks north of Times Square, surrounded by food I enjoyed, my cat, and with a pile of new DVDs I couldn't wait to dive into - New Year's Eve was going to be simple and easy. However, the my girlfriend was visiting her parents in Washington, DC and I was strongly encouraged to come down and spend time with the in-laws.

I should never have gotten on that bus.

This topic falls just inside of the "Commuting Suicide" umbrella. It involves travel in public transportation, and it made me want to kill myself. Therefore, we're going to let it run.

Also, it involves bodily fluids. Lots of bodily fluids.

Things have gotten out of hand. Chaos rules. Order? What order? There's no such thing underground. This all started when a man held his hand on my genitalia for three stops in a crowded subway car. I couldn't move. I wasn't sure if he was doing it on purpose. And I didn't want to make a scene. So I arched my body into a position reserved for Cirque du Soleil performers, hoping to avoid the unwanted touch. It was then that I realized the New York Subway needs some new rules.

I'm not sure if he was homeless. But he had all the symptoms of being homeless. A plastic bag full of other plastic bags. A steady head twitch. Shoes with well-worn soles. This is not a rare sighting on the New York subway. What he did next, however, is.

I take back all those things I said about New York commuters. After watching this video, I have a new found respect for that guy with the armpits that smell like onions and whose hand just happens to graze my genital region one too many times.

(Via Evan Almighty)

I'm not sure where she got the chain. Her pockets didn't appear large enough to hold such a long and heavy weapon. You'd think I'd be thinking other things while watching her whip the chain into the man's chest, but for some reason I was much more interested in spacial abnormalities.

Wednesdays are matinée days in the city. That means that the population of the city increases as little old women from the suburbs make their way into the city for an afternoon of Jersey Boys. They are fearful of the city, they don’t understand its nuances and shortcuts. It’s as if they travel into the city hoping to cheat death a little. These women assume a day spent in Manhattan is like living life on the edge. And of course, they don’t drive in, as they assume driving in the city is equal to wrestling cougars. No, they take the train. They take MY train.

I promised to ramp up my tales of Commuting Suicide. I've failed. Maybe I've become too good a commuter – too good at blocking out my inane fellow travelers, too good at keeping myself entertained. When I'm ready to relaunch this semi-regular feature, my notebook is full of moderately amusing observations (and, in case I find myself pen-less, I started a Twitter account to text myself reminders.)

But I'm proud of a few past installments, including "The Conversationalist," which I actually read during a job interview to a slightly puzzled crowd.