The king of Subway, or my first firsthand experience of Yankees fans

So, apparently there's this sport called baseball, and this team called the Yankees, and earlier this week they won this thing called the World Series. And whenever that happens, there's a parade in lower Manhattan called the Ticker Tape Parade where people who work in the office buildings lining Broadway throw paper from their windows onto the street. Um... OK?

I work in Tribeca, so the parade took place literally a block from my office building. When I got off the subway at around nine this morning, there were already mobs of people decked out in blue heading toward Broadway. And I was there, in my bright red coat, walking against the flow of people, just another girl who doesn't give a shit about baseball trying to get to work.

Of course, all this madness happened on the rare occasion that I didn't bring my lunch to work. Usually I give myself enough time in the mornings to make something to eat, so I save money on lunch, since it is undoubtedly the lamest of all the daily meals and not really worth spending money on. But today I slept in a bit. By early afternoon I was a starvin' marvin, and decided it was time to venture out to Subway. The following is a narrative observation of what happened as I waited in line for my sandwich art.

A group of three women, one older and two who appear to be around 20 or 21, walk into the restaurant, empty beer cups in hand. The two younger women - one with blonde hair and one with brunette - remind me of LSU fans, except instead of purple and gold stripper outfits, they are decked out in blue Yankees t-shirts and jackets, bell-bottomed jeans, tennis shoes, and entirely too much eyeliner. For the sake of entertainment value, let's just assume the older woman is their mother.
It is about 1 p.m., and they are all drunk. They stumble through the line of people right in front of me, clearly in search of something not sandwich-related.
"Is this the line for the bathroom?" the brunette girl slurs.
"No," the nice man in front of me says. "The bathroom is out of order, apparently."
The girl bumbles over to the bathroom door, reads the clearly posted "OUT OF ORDER" sign, and yanks (ha!) on the handle to find out for herself if this statement is true. Surprisingly, the door is locked.
"Ughhhh," she says. "Let's go upstairs. Surely they'll let us in the bathroom upstairs."
"Dear," her mother says, "we don't even know if there's a bathroom upstairs. Let's just go."
"But they have to let us go upstairs!" she protests, eyes dutifully clouded over. She makes her way to the stairs and starts to ascend.
A few people ahead of me in line, a man sees all this happening and decides to interject.
"There's not a bathroom upstairs," he says matter-of-factly.
"What?!" she inquires.
"Um, I don't think there's a bathroom upstairs. I think this is the only one, and it's out of order."
"And who are you?" she retorts. "Like the king of Subway or something?!"
With that, she starts to leave with her mom and probable sister tagging along behind. On their way out, the mother turns to the man and garbles, "Sorry about that. Just ignore her."

So, to recap: A drunken mother and her two drunken daughters stumbling around, dressed poorly, wearing too much makeup, talking obnoxiously to strangers, carrying plastic cups formerly filled with alcohol, in search of a restroom.

Just another typical day in the Grove Manhattan???