So I'm on the bus.
Whatever.
I have my iPod in my ears, I'm being taken back to the heyday of my youth by Spandau Ballet, work is over, I'm on my way home to my Fluffy Bear and my adorable furkids.
Not only that, but my boss gave me a priority to work on yesterday, and I knocked it out of the park in by 4:30pm, and I am feeeeeeeling good (DUM, da-dum, da-dum, da-dum, da-da-da-da-da-da-da-DUM..)
Then this guy gets on the bus.
He's actually quite interesting looking.
He's got a Johnny Rotten look, dressed - of course! - from head to toe in black, leather jacket and boots, ultra-skinny jeans and earrings protruding from all sorts of places on his head.
He looks strangely IN place sitting next to the woman with bright red hair who has half of it in a chignon and the other half in a side mohawk fanning across the left side of her head.
It's all good.
The woman next to me is older, grey haired and knitting.
It's all very cosmopolitan and diverse.
We chug along, up the hill, down the dale... OK, not really. I'm not even sure what a dale is.
Then we get to Johnny Rotten's stop.
And here's the thing with skinny, low waisted jeans, dear Reader, especially if the jacket or shirt you are wearing with them only comes down to your waist. When you sit down, the jeans are so tight that they naturally pull down in back because, let's face it, you're bending your body and something's gotta give. It's basic physics.
And so there's a simple rule: When you stand up again, pull up your jeans in back.
But no. Johnny Rotted doesn't do that.
We are all treated to the joyful sight of one and a half inches of his lilly white arse, and his disturbingly dark crack as he slowly progresses to the front of the bus.
Of course there is no one in the queue (line) behind him to obscure our view.
Of course Johnny is stuck behind other passengers who don't have commuter cards and so are taking time paying with cash (you pay when you get off the bus), trying to shove their crumpled notes into the automatic reader and dropping their coins into the little slot.
AND... of course it's like being in front of a train wreck. As much as you want to, you can't look away.
Thoughts come, unbidden, into your head.
Bald heads.
Pale eggs.
White balloons.
You can't avoid it. You can't forget it. It's there, burned into your brain, like a song you hate.
I'd tell you which songs I really hate, but then they'd be in my head.
Just like that guy's ARSE.
Hell is other people.
This is a Coco Fesse a coconut only available from the island of the Seychelles.
Fesse is a slang name for arse.
If you want to read more in the Hell is Other People series, click the Tag below or the Category link on the left.
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