Some Bitching! And the Bus of the Retarded!
I know nobody likes reading bitchy posts—but I'm going to write one anyway. Because if I don't, my head will explode.
I'd like to entitle this post
The Bus!
of the
Retarded!
This is the schedule for the Westbound #1 bus: leave my office at 4:31, arrive outside my house around 5. So yesterday, as usual, I shut down my computer a few minutes early and ninja rolled on outta here and into the bus stop. Should have known something was up when the bus was five minutes late, but I boarded anyway, like a hapless idiot climbing aboard the Titanic.
The first indication that something was wrong was when I noticed that the index of toothless, grinning, babbling, slurring yokels was higher than usual. (And despite the title, I don't mean the mentally incompetent—I mean the ones who look like they were raised in an outhouse in Lovilia [like those beary kids.]) A bunch of laughing, grinning, drooling tards in overalls and work jackets. All babbling to each other.
At every stop, the ones in the front (it was some kind of clan) would call out to the bus driver:
"Other sidea the street! Nawp, guess not! Wait, here he comes!"
I'm guessing they were playing the "who's gonna board the bus" game.
Things got worse when the fat woman with the roley suitcase clambered on board, slowly bumping her suitcase up the steps: clang rattle, clang rattle. By this point I knew we were late, cause it was five to 5 and we weren't even out of downtown. But then we stopped again for the lady on the electric scooter, and then the lady with the crutches, and all the yokes got up and stood in the aisle—
And you know working this job has already made me hate the handicapped. Now I hate them even more.
We waited while the scooter lady did circles and backed against the wall. Then we took off. If the yokels were a clan, they disbanded now—every fucking block one would snap the wire that signals the bus driver to pull over. They'd get off, and more than once, just when we started moving again, someone else would pull the cord and five seconds later we'd pull back against the curb.
I was supposed to get home at five, take a shower, come up and greet Sarah with some food, but instead she beat me home, and it took me about 50 minutes to ride out a 29 minute bus ride.
. . .
Man, you know what I hate! Fucking refrigerators! Bet you didn't know that! But jeebus—I hate food that's cold and hard and smells like fridge air. And leftovers—blet.
. . .
Someone behind me is complaining to the bus in hushed whispers and all I can hear is the boss's same thing over again: "Well, the proofreaders write in red…please don't let the red offend you…well, you did spell those things wrong…no, she's not trying to get you…"
I'd like to entitle this post
The Bus!
of the
Retarded!
This is the schedule for the Westbound #1 bus: leave my office at 4:31, arrive outside my house around 5. So yesterday, as usual, I shut down my computer a few minutes early and ninja rolled on outta here and into the bus stop. Should have known something was up when the bus was five minutes late, but I boarded anyway, like a hapless idiot climbing aboard the Titanic.
The first indication that something was wrong was when I noticed that the index of toothless, grinning, babbling, slurring yokels was higher than usual. (And despite the title, I don't mean the mentally incompetent—I mean the ones who look like they were raised in an outhouse in Lovilia [like those beary kids.]) A bunch of laughing, grinning, drooling tards in overalls and work jackets. All babbling to each other.
At every stop, the ones in the front (it was some kind of clan) would call out to the bus driver:
"Other sidea the street! Nawp, guess not! Wait, here he comes!"
I'm guessing they were playing the "who's gonna board the bus" game.
Things got worse when the fat woman with the roley suitcase clambered on board, slowly bumping her suitcase up the steps: clang rattle, clang rattle. By this point I knew we were late, cause it was five to 5 and we weren't even out of downtown. But then we stopped again for the lady on the electric scooter, and then the lady with the crutches, and all the yokes got up and stood in the aisle—
And you know working this job has already made me hate the handicapped. Now I hate them even more.
We waited while the scooter lady did circles and backed against the wall. Then we took off. If the yokels were a clan, they disbanded now—every fucking block one would snap the wire that signals the bus driver to pull over. They'd get off, and more than once, just when we started moving again, someone else would pull the cord and five seconds later we'd pull back against the curb.
I was supposed to get home at five, take a shower, come up and greet Sarah with some food, but instead she beat me home, and it took me about 50 minutes to ride out a 29 minute bus ride.
. . .
Man, you know what I hate! Fucking refrigerators! Bet you didn't know that! But jeebus—I hate food that's cold and hard and smells like fridge air. And leftovers—blet.
. . .
Someone behind me is complaining to the bus in hushed whispers and all I can hear is the boss's same thing over again: "Well, the proofreaders write in red…please don't let the red offend you…well, you did spell those things wrong…no, she's not trying to get you…"
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