It’s a great day to be alive. The sun is shining; birds are chirping; everything seems to be in its right place. That’s when I climbed on the bus.
There’s something about riding the bus that I can’t quite put my finger on. Something…terrible…right on the tip of my tongue. Like a piece of hot licorice, or worse, two pieces of hot licorice.
It’s not the overcrowding, the hard plastic seats, or the intermittent blasts of heat – you know, the ones that make you feel like a broiled sardine – radiating throughout the chassis. It’s not the twelve G’s of force you experience every time the driver takes a corner a bit too aggressively, or the silent but deadly countermeasures being employed by the grizzly gentleman with the eye-patch who thinks you are invading his personal space. It’s not the woman wearing the technicolor robe who is opening a…
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