Dear Mr. Stinky pants,
I realize Spring has just, err, sprung. Summer – and all that sweat-making heat – is still a long time away. I would like to caution you against what you apparently decided was to be your co-riders’ winter of discontent by forgoing basic hygiene until the snow melted: we can smell you. From several feet away.
Now, you haven’t quite reached the epic proportions of Crazy Gristede’s Bag Foot Guy, but you’re getting there, and it’s clearly all because you eschewed both soap and deodorant through the lean winter months. Still, when I sat down next to you this morning, what wafted through the air was less reminiscent of a trip to the Yankee Candle Co. than a trip to Scores New York after 3 A.M.
Also, I’d like to caution you on one other point of etiquette. No man I have ever met in my life is such a tripod as you apparently were attempting to pass off. Further, the spread you were giving the seats offered plenty of opportunity for passersby to judge for themselves and you, sir, are no tripod. Close up shop, dear. And then wash that shop. Several times.
Your friends and co-riders on the subway will thank you.
(Subway Letters – Episode One)

[photo from Gothamist]