The Holy Order Of The Asian Pussy Pounders
The bus ride
by Tironius, created Friday, June 09, 2006, with permalink

One of a million tales that illustrate the freakdom of this city I will tell (when I remember the rest)

It was like any other night. Two nights a week, during that semester, I had a class that held me until night-time. I waited for the bus and soon my ship came in. With my big flat knylon drawing carrier in hand, I boarded the vessel. It’s the Geary #38, and I was going home.

Yes, it was like any ordinary night, except that, in San Francisco, there is no ordinary.

On board, near the front of the well-lit bus, I sat. A chunky broad woman to my right, and a heavy-set black man to my 12:00, the bus’ left side. The “port” if this were a sailing ship.

My statistical, yet anecdotal, evidence here in San Francisco maintains that whenever there is a comotion, a brouhaha, or otherwise social disturbance on the bus, ninety percent off the time the cause seems to be related to the melanin in the offender’s skin. I believe the brown pigment must intefere with the brain’s “accountability center.”

This event proved no different. The guy was ranting about football and wrestling, making the woman next to me uncomfortable.

Kevin, this is the part of the story I’ll know you will appreciate, being someone who notes the subtle ironies in life: It was the man’s stop, he finally said to the woman with a smile, “I’m just messing with you,” and left. I pull out of my ears my iPod shuffle earbuds, the woman turns to me — cue the irony — and said through her red lipsticked orifice, in the deepest fucking voice I ever heard, “Sometimes you just have to nod your head and smile,” because the only vagina this person owns is quite possibly floating in a jar on his mantle!

I nodded.