Archive | March 31, 2011

Festy like an armpit in June.

My bus to work is like a moving asylum that doubles as a taxi service.

I love living in large cities for the very reason they proffer up all kinds of weirdos (they add colour and save humans from becoming rote), but all city folk know Survival Rule No 1: avoid eye contact and keep the crazies to a minimum. Guys who mutter to themselves are given a wide berth and friends who represent train wrecks are rerouted to other stations.

But riding the bus is like having my face pressed up against someone’s proverbial crotch (or literal, as the case may be). You’re trapped in a glass case of emotion with every kind of kook, and there can be no escape.

We have a regular crazy who sidles up to women, clapping loudly in their ear. I figure it’s his way of saying “hey baby, how about a drink?” but frankly, it needs work. Then there’s the ones that breathe on you, like aircon at full blast; or creep up real close (no matter how much room they have), as if your part of the bus is better than theirs. What the?

And today, some dude got on the bus reeking of gasoline. Some possibilities …

  1. He’s a stunt man who was recently set on fire;
  2. He’s not a stunt man but was, nevertheless, recently set on fire;
  3. He finds petrol a cheaper, more manly alternative to cologne;
  4. He’s a villain of Joker proportions who was spawned in a smelting accident;
  5. He’s actually a robot that needs fuel as … um, fuel.

That’s all I got. Can there be any other reason? The smell went the length of the bus, leaving commuters to cram their face up against the windows in desperation. But I do thank him for clearing my nasal cavity – he was the equivalent to smearing Vicks Vapor under my nostrils.

If his ass was a tissue dispenser, I’d be set.


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