Oh so I take the bus to school now. Frannie is old enough now, and our schedules are more flexible, so I don’t have to drive and rush back home after.

Most of the time I like the bus, except when it’s too crowded, or the bus driver’s all shouty, or when some BI-ATCH has too much Ho Juice slathered on. Or when something happens like today.

I hopped on the bus and found a seat. Soon after, this guy gets on and tells the driver, did she know that one of the tires was completely shredded? The driver opened the front and back doors of the bus and just sat there. She didn’t make an announcement (“get off the bus, for this one goeth no further”), she didn’t respond to questions. Just sat there.

We all got off, slowly and with everyone all blinky and confused and tired. Yo ho, there was another 48 behind ours. I noted the shredded state of the tire on the old bus and moved on.

The new bus was full of the people who were already on, people who had accumulated at the bus stop since our broken-down bus had closed its doors, and now we were piling on, the disgorged contents of the broken bus.

We roll on, past the broken bus and broken driver. About five minutes in, “POOM!” the bus shakes and I have that feeling that comes from seeing sixty million movies where the wing rips off the airplane, and all the people and their stuff gets sucked out.

But no, it turns out that the insano driver had merely crashed into someone’s open car door. Again, no explanation, and this time he wouldn’t even open the back door to let us all out (again). I went to the Texaco and called Mr. Husband.

“Please! It’s a sign! I don’t want to get on another bus today!”

“Okay, hold tight, I’ll be there as soon as Girlie finishes her milk.”

I think bus drivers are secret Zen-masters-in-training. Once you get to the point where there is no flap that will unhinge you, you are immediately transformed into a Bodhisattva or one of those cute winged lions, ascending, leaving the bus to ghostride off the Aurora Bridge and burst into flames on the cement below.

In Other News

What the fuck is that jivey-ass Old Country Buffet commercial shit? It is getting Octobery, therefore my three months of righteous television disavowal have gone out the damn fenetre.

SO tonight I see this commercial for Ye Old Country Buffet, talking about waiters like they’re the fucking Anti-Christ. “Who wants a waiter?” I think it says. Fucking me, that’s who. I love waiters. Assuming you are patronizing the proper establishments, who else will feed you and act like they’re your best friend for forty-five minutes to an hour? I will take that over a fuzzy-lipped lad whose only job is to shave meat off of a giant wad of something unrecognizable until you tell them to stop.