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Deep in Bushwick, it’s the middle of the night, and you’re a toxic combination of exhausted and tipsy. Wanting to get back to your apartment in Harlem, you are loathe to put what’s left of your life at the mercy of the capricious, indifferent MTA. So, you opt for Uber, and while you could make believe you’re high society and order a car all for yourself, you just paid $50 for three drinks at a hipster cocktail bar. With that in mind, you select uberPool—a whopping $6 less than a solo vehicle.
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After sliding into a car that wreaks of tacos and cologne, you immediately set off in the exact opposite direction of where you want to go. Heading to Harlem from Bushwick? You’ll have to backtrack to Bensonhurst, after which, still captive, you will bounce through time and space—that is, Astoria, Alphabet City and Chelsea—like a demonic game of Pac-Man. Naturally, when your ride isn’t sitting in standstill traffic on the West Side Highway, it’s zigzagging through the streets of Greenwich Village at a speed that would make Danica Patrick carsick. To make matters worse, this somber, meditative hour now includes surge pricing, that dastardly upcharge which the devil himself created in the bowels of hell. In the end, you will not save any money at all.
As your dead-in-the-eyes driver blasts a psyops-worthy soundtrack of Baha Men deep cuts, your fellow uberPoolers don’t help matters: A plastered NYU sophomore is yelling into her phone at her insane boyfriend while an Upper East Side yuppie is giving an incredibly detailed account of his new pec implants. Do you want to see a picture of them? No. You just want to get home.