I don't have a problem with there being soldiers in the New York City subway. I just want to know why they're wearing camouflage.

Think about it - it's a green man and a white wall. This tactic would be brilliant if we're ever invaded by a horde of colorblind. Which would make for an interesting government. We'd become the red, white, and "hey, is that blue?"

We're going to be invaded, and a fleet of Iraqi soldiers will be walking around the subways thinking that the coast is clear. "It's just a wall," they'll say. "With a green thing coming out of it. And it's holding a gun." If you want to look like you belong in New York, wear all black, never look up, and give attitude to everyone you meet. Carry your gun in a guitar case, replace your canteen with a coffee cup, and wear something that might blend in a bit more with the subway system (See tile, urine-soaked).

How stupid would someone have to be to mistake a man for a wall? This is the same person who thought his train was coming, only to find out it was two guys with flashlights running really, really fast.

And there's no way for us to know whether or not they're real soldiers. The two things they have to identify themselves are camouflage and machine guns. The only thing easier to get a hold of in New York is a slice of Original Ray's Pizza.

I do understand that the premise here is not to actually blend in, rather to stand out. But couldn't they have looked just as militarily in dress blues? Now that would be scary - a bunch of guys dressed nicely in the subway. Instead, they're all in their jungle clothes. My guess is that we hadn't been in a war in a while, and those uniforms had been gathering dust in their closets. We should be thankful - these guys were one hanger away from wearing a Members Only jacket.

I get the impression that we're supposed to feel safer with these guys around. No matter whose side they're on, guns in the subway do NOT make me feel safer. And just for a moment, lets explore what would happen if we do get invaded.

These soldiers, very few of whom grew up within two states of a subway, will be fighting forces raised in a terrain with caves. And the soldiers that they will be fighting against will have a commanding officer smart enough to dress them up as regular New Yorkers, completely eliminating the element of surprise from our boys. If given the choice between a guy mumbling in another language and a muscular corn-fed, well-dressed gentleman, who would you think is the New Yorker?

It's safe to reason then that these guys are not combat soldiers - these guys are for show. If New Yorkers complain that were are not being protected, the politicians can point to all the soldiers and speak of the increased security. "See?" they'll say. "On every train platform, you've got two guys standing around not doing much of anything. Doesn't that make you feel safer?"

It doesn't, because these guys are effectively statues. I was in Union Square and I saw a guy playing the bagpipes next to two of these soldiers. The bagpipes! In a subway! And the soldiers did nothing. Those guns must not be loaded, because if I were equipped with a loaded rifle in cramped quarters next to a guy playing a bagpipe, I would shoot the sucker. And the bagpipe.

But I shouldn't criticize the soldiers too much - it's not their fault they're stationed in a, well, station. It's got to be embarrassing for a soldier to get those orders. When he's sitting around with all his soldier friends discussing being shipped off, you know he doesn't want to admit where he's going.

"Where are you stationed?"

"Jalabad."

"And you?"

"Baghdad."

"And you?"

"125th street."

"Dude, you're going to die."

Someone up there wasn't thinking this through. And no matter what they're wearing, soldiers in a subway will never follow orders. Because there's no way to get them. There's no satellite signal in the subway, and you'd be better off listening to the teacher in Charlie Brown than to a subway announcer.

"Attention all military personnel! Attention all military personnel! Wahwahwah wawah wah wahwah wahwah wah wahwahwah. And there is a delay in the downtown E train service. Two guys are on the tracks with flashlights running really, really fast. And one of them is wearing a blue hat with a big E in the middle of it."

At least I think that's blue.

I am befreckled, pale, and red-headed; if I were a few feet shorter, I'd probably be after your lucky charms.

People are often surprised to find out I'm Jewish. Not because of my looks - I just leave really good tips. (badum!) This time of year, when my non-Jewish friends are happily eating rolls and loafs and other such bread-like substances, they are amazed to find me subsisting on what they previously thought was an uncut sheet of saltines. This time of year means two things. One, it's Passover. Two, the New York Mets are mathematically eliminated from the post-season. That second one has nothing to do with being Jewish, it's just an unfortunate truth.

There are a lot of stereotypes that Jews deal with, and I'm writing this column in part to diffuse them. Growing up Jewish was tough, even in New York. My classmates would always tease me. They'd call me names like "cheapskate" and "hooknose" and "bagel-eater." That Hebrew school sucked.

I observe Passover, and I don't mean that I notice it's there. I do understand the irony of writing a column called "Observational Humor" about observing a holiday ("It's funny because it's Jew!"). As a public service, I'm going to explain Passover to you, the reader. There are many complex and confusing rules about what you can and cannot do, most of which I will omit because I don't understand them.

My typical explanation for Passover is that it's like Thanksgiving without bread or football. And yes, you can watch some Arena League games this time of year. But Arena Football to the NFL is like matzah to a nice loaf of bread. Except when a higher power commands otherwise, there's no way that stuff should be in your house.

The not eating leavened bread thing comes from when Jews were hurried out of Egypt and didn't have time to let their bread rise. To commemorate their flight from slavery, we eat the same crap they were stuck with. This is a valuable lesson - whenever I travel, I pack the night before. If something goes down and my trip has to be commemorated, I don't want generations of kids pissed at me because I forgot to pack my boxers.

Most of what we can't eat comes from the idea of what the Israelites couldn't get their hands on while in the desert. And though it would have been much more convenient for future generations had the Jews been exiled to a Wal-Mart, rules are rules. The stuff you can't have on Passover is referred to as "chametz," which is taken from the biblical Hebrew for "stuff you can't have on Passover."

If you do keep kosher for Passover, you can't simply avoid chametz (pronounced "chametz"). You're also not allowed to own any. Traditionally, Jews "sell" their chametz en masse, just in case they missed anything while they were cleaning. You wouldn't want to get half-way through the holiday before stumbling upon an errant loaf of bread carelessly discarded under a sofa cushion.

I used to call my non-Jewish friends right before Passover and have them take all my chametz. One year, I had to give away about $200 worth of hard liquor. I have since realized that it is cheaper to abstain from grocery shopping and eat takeout the entire month of March.

I sold my chametz this year. I wasn't trying to keep kosher or anything, I just needed the money. Which makes me wonder if I'm a bad Jew or a good Jew. I'm a bad Jew because I only observed the law by accident. But I'm a good Jew because, hey, I made a few bucks.

I'm kidding, of course. We don't actually charge anything for the chametz - it's just a symbolic transaction. And Jews aren't actually cheap either - it's just a stereotype. Passover is one of three eight-day holidays. If we were a cheap people, we'd have found a way to cut those celebrations down a little and save some cash on the gifts.

But perhaps the most important Passover tradition is how cheap other people are (see friends, my). It is rare that anyone offers to buy me beer. Except on Passover, since they know I can't accept. And waving beer in front of a Jew on Passover is like waving a donut in front of a fat guy on a diet. Waving beer in front of a Jewish comedian on Passover is like waving a donut in front of a very poor fat guy on a diet.

But come Passover, everyone I know tries to buy me beer. I've really got to stop going to this Hebrew school.

Hello, my name is Steve, and I have no butt.

Sure, I have something that pretends to be a butt. It looks kind of like a butt, feels kind of like a butt, and performs various functions limited to butts, such as sitting and other things that rhyme with sitting. But it is not a butt in the conventional sense of the word - it provides no padding, little sex appeal, and I've seen Rubix Cubes with rounder corners.

I'm not sure how old I was when I realized that I had no butt. Whenever it was, it's been a daily part of my life ever since. I am uncomfortable on wooden benches, it is quite difficult to hula, and I don't even bother trying to dance the hustle. Frankly, I am afflicted.

People notice often; I am constantly hearing comments about my deficiency of posterior. People will say, "dude, you have no butt," and "what happened to your butt?" and "Man, that pizza was good. Dude, you have no butt."

And it's true - the pizza was quite good. Coincidentally, I also have no butt. Sometimes, I don't even like using the word "but" because it reminds me of my pain. Especially when I sit on wooden benches.

I'd imagine a butt would be quite useful, and not in the Ladies Man sort of way. Since it could help keep my pants up, a butt could save me quite a bit of money on belts. Have you ever seen those children's coloring books where the 2-D pants simply look like an upside-down V? That's what mine look like from behind while I'm wearing them.

I have often been persecuted for my lack of butt. It is commonplace to hear names like "Small-butt" and "no-butt" and "the guy who doesn't have a butt." Once, I was even called "sheer rear." Actually, I wasn't, but that's just because all you people with butts are more comfortable on benches and thus have gotten lazy and uncreative.

I'm sure I will get complaints from readers who actually have butts. You will write in and tell me how hard it is to go through life with a considerable caboose, and about being called "big-butt" and "butt" and "the guy who has a butt." And certainly, you've been called "massive assive" because people without butts are very creative. But these names are mere retaliation for years of inadequacy. Face it - this world prefers butts. And not in a Ladies Man sort of way.

Butter. Buttons. Butte, South Dakota. There are butts everywhere we look. And though some of you may like that sort of thing, it is a painful reminder to those of us whose only butt comes in the form of a flying buttress. Which I always thought sounded like a wrestling move.

No one ever made a song about liking small butts - the lyrics just wouldn't work. No one cares about Sir Mix-a-Little's anaconda. And when a girl walks in with an itty-bitty waste and, well, nothing, no one really notices. Except the people calling her "no-butt."

I have often lied about why I have no butt. I've told people that I lost it in a tragic farming accident. I've told people that I actually have a butt, and only smart people can see it, kind of like the Emperor's New Butt. And my favorite explanation is that I laughed it off at everyone being so concerned about whether or not I have a butt.

I still hold out hope that I will grow a butt. But as I get older, that hope dwindles and is replaced with seat cushions and tight belts. If I haven't grown a butt by now, it probably won't happen. Especially since no old people have butts. Well, they might, but I've never been inclined to check. If any of you know whether or not old people have butts, please keep it to yourself cause I don't want to picture that.

Those of you reading this that do have butts, I implore you to help ease the plight of your buttless friends. Compliment us on how our pants just kind of hang there. Tell us that it must be nice to never have to buy a product from Suzanne Sommers. And most of all, don't ever take the last donut - we need it more than you. Please, give your butts to the less fortunate.

But not in a Ladies Man sort of way.

I am in my early 20s. I am not the irresponsible clod that MTV thinks I am. I am passionate about my career, work hard at everything I do, and spend most of my waking life trying to make a mark on the world that does not involve a spray can. But it is not yet my turn to be successful.

I cannot buy anything without forgoing something else. I cannot go food shopping without a handful of coupons. It will be years before I can purchase anything at a furniture store not named IKEA. It is simply not yet my turn.

I can't rent a car without paying a mint in insurance, and I can't own one without paying even more. While I've been able to shoot a gun for our country for the last few years, it will be a few more before I can buy one for use domestically. Not that I'd want to. But my views on such an issue don't matter much because I don't have classmates to rally or contributions to funnel.

I am in between periods of irresponsibility; I no longer have my parents to bail me out and I do not yet have my savings to do the same. And my post-college debt does not help the situation. There's a reason why they call it a loan. Because when you're 23 years old and staring down the barrel of $50,000, you've never felt so alone in your life.

I'm learning to do my taxes, but I'd rather hire a CPA. I can survive soup being a main course, but I'd rather it just be an appetizer. I am okay living in a small place with poorly insulated windows, but I'd rather the ability to stretch out by a fire. But it is not yet my turn for any of this. Which is okay, since I can't afford enough furniture to fill a bigger place anyway.

I look at some of my friends who are several years older than me. Some of them have wonderful jobs in wonderful places with wonderful CPAs, and that encourages me. Some of them have the same problems I do, which terrifies me. If I knew that in five or 10 or 15 years, I would no longer have to worry about any of this, I'd be fine now. But the possibility that it will never be my turn is what keeps me up at night. That, and all the sound coming from my poorly insulated windows.

The real reason why the drinking age in America is 21 has nothing to do with whether or not we'd be mature enough to handle it. A lot of us are immature straight through our 20s, 30s, 40s, or whatever other decade we make it through before our immaturity kills us in a tragic beer-related accident. ("Look at the keggerator I made out of legos and a jet pack!") The real reason why the drinking age in America is 21 is that the first five years after college is best remembered when not remembered.

I attended a wonderful school with many people much more affluent than myself, which helped my hone my false sense of entitlement. And if there's one thing a false sense of entitlement does not get along with, it's a lousy economy (See America, United States of).

Employers have long made a habit of rewarding experience over ability, which leads the newly graduated to face the biggest Catch-22 there is - how to get experience without experience. And millions of soon-to-be-former students are about to descend on the job market. It will be an absolute dogfight, but I feel more prepared now. I've toughened myself up by eating soup on the floor under poorly insulated windows.

It took me until February after graduation to feel like I had a shot in this world, and I still have yet to hit the bullseye. And even if I get passed the career Catch-22, there is still the struggle of a wife, a house, kids, and my future wife and I sitting in our future house and teaching our future kids to be ready to struggle for most of their lives. Because we'd be silly to think we're the only ones who have to struggle.

I set out to write this column as a rally cry for twenty-somethings and as a warning for people about to be twenty-somethings. But as I wrote it, I realized that my biggest struggle is not with my career or my social life or my soup. My biggest struggle is simply accepting that it is not yet my turn to be successful. It is my turn to work hard and save up and sacrifice while I am still young and energetic enough to do so. And these 800 words have made me realize that I am not "paying my dues." Rather, I am proving myself to the world, so that I'll be around and ready to advance to the counter when my turn comes and they call my number.

"Next!"

I think I'll have the soup.