I'm one of the few New Yorkers who actually enjoys tourists. I mean, it's like living in a city overrun by monkeys. See them try to ride an escalator! See them trapped in revolving doors. Watch the frolicking start the second snow hits the ground.

These two girls had obviously moved here to go to college, judging by their young ages, their midwestern accents, and their juxtaposition of white tights with Uggs. They exuded the jaunty confidence that said, "We were hot shit back in Omaha!" but as they scampered around the uptown "A" train they scanned the male faces for reassurance that big city dudes found them hot.

Newspapers remained in place. Playstations kept playing. More messages got typed into Blackberries. The city's answer? Uh, not so much.

Unwilling to give up without a fight, the two girls romped over to one of the floor-to-ceiling poles that riders hang onto and -- surprise! -- spun around it like strippers, throwing their heads back and shaking their long, badly-highlighted locks. Ugh, I winced: how many times had I seen people sneeze, then grab these with snotty hands? I'd sooner hang onto Ernest Borgnine's jockstrap.

The two pairs of eager eyes scanned the crowd. Are we turning you on yet boys? No.

So one girl threw her hair back and licked the pole, her big red tongue sliding from floor to ceiling. And that's when I threw up.