Don’t get me wrong. I have some amazing, wonderful guy friends who I love to bits and basically think of as women friends with penises (wait…that didn’t come out right…). What I mean to say is, there are plenty of totally awesome dudes who wouldn’t so much as think of using the opportunity provided by a packed subway for a cheap thrill. But let’s be honest, okay? There are also some real cowardly shitbags out there, and they will paw at a boob or butt cheek, or rub their packages against women just a little too firmly, or just generally pull some Chester Molester shit when they conveniently find themselves near a lady on a packed tight subway car. In a 2008 study, 63 percent of New York City women surveyed said they’d been sexually harassed on subways. (Even more disturbing, 10 percent reported being sexually assaulted.) Ninety-six percent of those polled, btw — sadly but unsurprisingly — never reported. And get this: One guy who was busted last year in New York City for groping was found to have already been arrested 53 times — I’m going to say that again — 53 times (!) for prior groping offenses. In Boston, the problem grew so out of control that anti-groping public service ads were posted throughout train stations and on subway cars (with phrases like “Rub Against Me and I’ll Expose You”); New York City, for reasons that aren’t entirely logical, recently shelved plans to begin a similar campaign. And don’t get me started on Japan, where they actually had to create women-only train cars because groping is such an epidemic. My response to all this? To say hell yes to this dare. Not only am I going to do some man groping, I’m going to do some research to figure out what guys have been particularly scummy (it’s public record), and I’m going to grope them. And while I’m at it, I’m going to grope some guys who probably haven’t groped any women on the subway but who deserve to be treated like a piece of meat anyway: The ageing “All American” drunk frat boy in a fancy suit on the train last week I heard talking with a similarly dressed drunk douchebag about “bitches and hos”; the guys on the train who hit on you incessantly and won’t leave you alone even after you tell them to fuck off; the dudes who say shit like, “Yo, let me talk to you for a second?” when you’re just trying to read the book you brought on the train to avoid this kind of interaction in the first place. Oh — and that piece of shit Tucker Max, for obvious reasons. THEY’RE ALL GETTING GROPED. And not in a sexy way, which they might like. I’ll be wearing latex gloves and touching them all over, maybe while mumbling nonsensical things about my 30 cats or my recent sex change or how I have a peg leg I’d love to show them. And making snorting noises. Really, this dare is like getting paid to dole out some of the sweetest revenge possible. I’m not all that big on vigilante justice but in this case, dude, I’m totally on top of it. And touching it inappropriately. And rizzich. It’s win-win.