Grosser than a cuddle-puddle

On the subway this evening, something happened to me that never had before, most likely never will again, and, frankly, I would have never thought possible. A man--who was, to be fair, clearly out of his mind--was about to get off the train with his various bags and so forth, but before exiting decided to spit copious amounts of fried chicken, projectile-like, at me and the woman seated next to me. As in, bits of fried chicken landed on my bag and boots. The mechanics of this baffled me, and I began laughing at the situation, which, oddly enough, no one else on the train seemed to find at all amusing. Was it that legendary New Yorker jadedness? Sympathy for the lunatic who clearly meant well, I mean, who doesn't have a hankering for semi-digested chicken on the train back to Brooklyn? I was relieved to see that my scarf and book remain largely poultry-free, but am a bit concerned about my bag, which I would say I can no longer, in good faith, refer to as "vegan."