Riding the NYC subway offers up a pu pu platter of crazy.

On any given day, subway riders are exposed to screaming, snoring, people talking to themselves or reciting passages from the Bible, spitting, making out, groping  or urinating.

Then you have your tourists who allow their children to sprawl on the filthy subway floor…imagine, parents reject MMR vaccinations, but let the little ones interact with the subway petri dish.

Let’s not forget the team of acrobats which are basically pole dancers and the ever popular Motown acapella singers.

But my all time favorite is Sanitary Pad Paddy.

Our first meeting was when she popped onto the train a few months back and in a stressed, but meek voice announced that she was homeless and in desperate need of money for sanitary napkins.

This is not a topic that you usually discuss in mixed company in a public forum.

I must admit that I succumbed and gave her a few dollars mostly rewarding originality, but no woman should not have the necessary tools for their monthly visit from the grim reaper.

Other strap hangers hung their heads and avoided eye contact.

She was definitely more convincing than the homeless millennial who limped his way through a crowded subway train, declaring that he had been hit by a car…when it pulled into the next station he limped to the sliding door and then had the audacity to hit the ground running.

Anyway, Sanitary Pad Paddy has showed up on several trains over the past few weeks.

This woman needs to see a gynecologist because she probably is iron deficient  from her nonstop flow.

This week, I was told that she showed up on a friend’s train.

Some women offered tampons, but they were rejected.

Guess Paddy is either a throwback menstruator or a creative panhandler who is most likely stockpiling for drugs and booze.

At this point, all I know is she is making me see red.