I have, due to extenuating circumstance had to catch the bus to work this week. The car is back tomorrow, which is a relief because public transport seems to be populated by a lot of people deficient in spacial awareness i.e theirs no fucking way you can fit 450 pounds of yourself next the 30cm of space on this seat next to me. Don’t get it twisted girl, I’m not usually discriminatory towards additional mass, in fact I’ll even go so far as to select the seat next to the fat dude just so he knows the feeling of a normal two-seater experience (I know, I’m generous and gracious in ways that even I masturbate over)
Aside from asphyxiation by large commuters my bus odyssey’ have been relatively benign – that was up until yesterday’s bus trip.
Almond snickers bar raised to my mouth I bolted for the waiting transit way. That’s what my particular bus line is called here. Or because Australians have an innate desire to shorten and desecrate every functional English word in the dictionary … The T.Way. See they even wrote it on the bus.
One of the benefits of being one of the last to make it on the bus is often not having to pay for service. The bus driver just tends to wave you through in their haste to drag race with the west bus. See below.
“Why don’t you just get the fuck up and give your seat to the old lady? Show some fucken respect”
“Excuse me? I did give the seat up!!”
“no you fucken didn’t you just sat there, with your bags all spread out like lady fucking Diana, you’re scum mate, you’re a fucken dog”
Aggressor stands and as a act of defiance offers her seat to the nearest commuter, who was bewildered and slightly mortified because she wasn’t an old lady.
“You don’t know me, why are you judging me?”
“Yeah and I don’t wanna fucken know you either”
“Then why are you still talking to me”
“I swear to God, if we weren’t on a bus I’d fucken bash ya”
Firstly, I don’t recall lady Diana just sitting anywhere with her bags laid out on a bus. The royal reference made me bite my lower lip to stifle my laugh, I should have just let loose, because by her logic we were on a bus, and its a protective shield from being bashed.
Secondly, as she stood there, one arm raised above her head, gripped to the railing (because lets face it stumbling back and forth when you’re in the midst of a tirade doesn’t earn any respect) she also clung to what must have been her son, about six years old. Notably withdrawn and probably thinking what everyone else was thinking “you should have just been a blow job”
As I stepped off the bus and walked away from Australia’s mobile version of The Experiment I thought to myself a few things.
- Forest Whitaker’s lazy eye condition is called Ptosis. The drooping gets worse the longer he’s been awake.
2.And Maybe I should catch the bus more often? Purely for it’s entertainment value? Or just for more things to write about in my blog.
Shuddering, I quickly dismissed the idea. As much as perving on other people’s lives arouses me, it’s the lack of air conditioning and redundancy of deodorant that keeps me attached to my car.
I really need to figure out how to wrap up my stories, this kinda just stagnates and dies.