Dine Out Not Under

Boyleing Points
Typography

I see subway officials are weighing whether or not to ban eating underground. Eeew.

I commute by bike so maybe my views are a bit parochial. But I don’t care. You are committing a high crime against human decency if you eat on the subway. It’s a crime even if it’s legal.

First off, I fall on the — we need less laws — side of things.  So I’m torn about making it illegal to eat on the subway. But it’s pretty obvious we need laws just so people aren’t friggin gross. 

Those of us who grew up with seven TV channels remember Gilligan’s Island and how much dog crap was everywhere.

Curb Your Dog meant don’t let the mutt go on the sidewalk, have him crap in the street, in the vicinity of the curb. The end of blocks or at the corners is where a lot of dog owners took their pooping pooches. Which created a hazard, of sorts.          

You’d be getting off a city bus and you’d have to leap past a mountain range of dog crap to get to the curb. Some of the mountains had shoe prints, clear evidence that some leaps came up short.

It was not pretty.

Minefields were not limited to street corners. You’d get to a park and maybe play tackle with all the leaves on the ground or just pick up a stack and chuck them in the air. But sure enough, you’d soon be sniffing, wondering who got the dog crap on ‘em.

It wasn’t against the law so people didn’t care much. One girl used to walk her Mastiff in the middle of the street and think nothing of allowing her huge dog to leave a huge pile right near the yellow line. Inevitably, cars would roll over it and smear the crapola up and down the street. So much for stickball games!

There aren’t too many people from those days who can’t remember trying to get crap off the bottom of their sneakers, usually with a popsicle stick.  Ah, the memories, I can still smell ‘em. 

Of course, this was all normal stuff. Until the Pooper Scooper law. Which really did transform the landscape of well, the landscape.  It became normal to expect people to pick up after their dogs. And for the most part, the law (and expectations) hold up. 

Eating on the subway is not the plague that dog crap was and maybe a law is not needed to outlaw it, but people need to know it’s foul, gross and nasty and not necessarily in that order. And it sure as hell shouldn’t be normal.

You want to have a bagel or a granola bar or a stale pretzel you bought from the guy at the top of the subway stairs, go right ahead. But you want to eat chicken wings — and then lick your fingers — you are foul, gross and nasty. You break out the knives and forks to eat and you’re like the girl walking her Mastiff in the middle of the street. You need a law. 

I’ve disgusted myself so much with this column, I’m taking off for a few weeks. See you in September!

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