“There must be a more dignified mode of transport.” – Molly Ringwald


Normally I like the bus; I’ll even rhapsodize about it. Moving at a stately pace in a chauffer-driven conveyance, you can read a book, stare out the window, into space or at your fellow passengers, and catalogue the details of scenery and characters in your mind – all activities that would be impossible or dangerous while driving a car. Not to mention that any collisions or brushes do not require the intervention of paramedics and insurance personnel, you just go about your day unencumbered by a metal cage.
These advantages are less obvious when travelling by bus on a rainy evening, standing at the exchange for half an hour because your bus was late and you missed the connection, watching the cars zoom by while forced to stand under a leaky shelter with homies spit spit spitting, exchange students and the miscellaneously impoverished.
Occupational snobbery gets the better of me waiting beside those young bucks in quilted jackets, “Here are the warehouse workers of tomorrow!” I’m looking at them, wondering if there’s a glimmer of a Tony Manero among them. Nope. Shufflers all.
So – daytime, frequent service, pleasant pace good, evening, missed connection, bad weather, gum-snapping young eejits bad. Its not surprising why, standing at the barren bus exchange, I stare longingly at the zooming cars I scorn. Merrily polluting the skies as they go, but they sure do look comfy and convenient. A warm bath sure would be nice right now, and I could have been home in 15 minutes by car instead of an hour with waiting time.
But annoyances aside, the only thing to really hate about transit is the people who run it: those fat fools who have never felt the hard kiss of a vinyl seat or inhaled the aroma of hard men carrying a booty of pop cans. I think the executives of Translink actually get car allowances! I’ll bet those nice comfy cars have leather seats too.
I know where I rank on the food chain. My ass isn’t too precious for vinyl. It’s just too precious for waiting out in the cold with the rabble and it wants to get the fuck home.

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