You know how when you’re two hours into what’s supposed to be a forty minute trip - shoved into a second sardine-packed train after the first experienced “mechanical difficulties” and was emptied into an impossibly hot subway station at which you waited long enough that late afternoon has now peaked at the delicate apex of rush hour, and the enormously fat Mets fan whose beer gut you’re squashed against is leering at you while bellowing into his Nokia about how much his wife enjoyed Disney’s Snow Dogs and he, like everyone else on both trains you’ve had the pleasure of riding, has apparently chosen this particular damp ninety-six degree day to stop wearing deodorant - how in the middle of all this, all the shrieking children and cell phones chirping their musical custom ring tones and the Russian lady squashed on your other side trying to eat a flourescent pink snack cake despite not actually having any free hands with which to do so - there’s a moment at which you realize that a) you’ve never wanted a beer more in your entire life and b) you’re one of those people lucky enough to experience their own personal vision of Hell?

Yeah, that.