2003-10-22

Yesterday as I boarded the bus on my way home, I asked for a transfer, as usual, and when I received it, I muttered �thanks,� AS USUAL: I may be lurking on the cusp of Pure Evil, but damned (heh) if I don�t have good manners. The bus driver, Mr. Surly Pants, apparently didn�t hear my half-hearted pleasantry, however; and as I walked down the aisle he hollered �You�re WELCOME!� after me like a pugnacious blue-collar reincarnation of Emily Post. I turned around and retorted �I SAID THANK YOU, ASSHOLE,� and, remarkably, did not get immediately turfed from the bus. BUT, ten minutes later, I happened to look in the rearview mirror: the driver was glaring at me balefully, the taillights of the bus ahead of us giving his face a sinister demonic glow. It sent a chill down my spine. Somewhere, someday, when I least expect it, he�s going to be there, waiting in the dark to slit my throat with the crisp sharp edge of a transfer. As I slide gurgling to the ground, clutching my gushing jugular, he�ll stand triumphantly over my prone form. �You�re welcome,� he�ll whisper, as I begin the long final bus ride to Hell.