BusTales: I

New feature here at The DTrav: BusTales. Just riding the bus has been sufficiently ridiculous to merit a descriptor of its own. Now, I know what you're thinking...what happened to those "regular features" introduced months ago? To that I say, those who forget the past are doomed to repeat it. And frankly, I have some great times in the past (I think), and I'd love to live them again.

Regardless, BusTales it is, with the first burst coming at you...now!

Two days ago, I missed the bus I was aiming for. Then, I gave the rifle to my little brother and he hit it, setting off a chain of events that would culminate in my death and the making of one of the worst movies in American cinema history (a close second to Manos: Hands of Fate, which at least was decently mocked by these guys), featuring, among other things, a deaf Japanese chick who constantly exposes herself for no apparent reason. Oops, that's the plot summary for Babel, a movie you need to see like Maria Shriver (aka "Skeletor") needs more plastic surgery.

Seriously, though, you shouldn't see Babel.

Even more seriously, I did miss my bus two days ago. I was shooting to get on the 7:15, but let's be serious. That means I was already an hour late. Rabadash! Join me in my attempt to get C.S. Lewis characters to double as exclamations of frustration). So, having to take the 7:35 was no worse spilling teriyaki sauce on an open cut...it's salty, but not pure salt.

Thank heaven I did miss my bus, however. Halfway through the trek, we came up on the 7:15, with its former riders clustered outside. As they piled aboard to make our bus a merry madhouse of metro mavens, a young lady with a stentorian bent recounted the adventure. If I was a clever writer, I would reproduce her urban accent and those unique phrases springing from her roots that peppered her telling. Not being half so clever, I fear I would come across as awkward and mostly racist, so I'll forbear.

In short, it went down like this--or, rather, this is how it came up. The contents of one man's stomach, that is. Yes, violent nausea of the explosive kind overcame one of the occupants of the ill-fated 7:15, provoking a geyser that would have brought out the crow's nest jack in all of us ("Thar she blows!"). The poor (besotted) soul couldn't stop himself and they all musta cussed cuz the bus had a musk of bile. Miraculously, no one got in the line of fire, but I doubt somehow that I would have been so lucky.

Today, I judiciously slept through my alarms.

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Coming up soon, "Drinking on the Bus: Who Does It and Why?"