emma b. says

Thursday, March 31, 2005

Temper Most Foul

Well the foulness has abated I thought I might share with the internets further tails of the horrors on MUNI...
... the other day I was running late as is my custom and I boarded the bus without fanfare and was grateful for a seat. So I whipped out the New Yorker and was reading the fascinating profile of the dreaded Nino Scalia (how could someone so brilliant be so unrelentingly dogmatic) when I was distracted by a repetitive movement in my peripheral vision. And I looked up. I shouldn't have. Seated kitty-corner to me, in what I call the "special seats", nominally reserved for the elderly, the pregnant and the tards, and more often than not the crazies, though if options are nil I will sit in them (I am not pregnant, nor elderly so that would make me either a tard or crazy, or both) . There was a heavy-lidded, sleepy eyed man with an Apple key-board box in his lap, and he was scratching at his crotch. OK, well, fine. We all get a little itch that needs a scratching from time to time, and a good many of us endeavor to be as discreet as possible while satisfying our primal/primate needs. I guess sometimes only an Apple key board will suffice, very well then, I am going back to Nino now and will pretend that I saw nothing.

So there is Nino and me and Title IX barrelling down Haight Street when again I am disturbed by the periphery. Heavy-lidded, sleepy eyed man appears to be in full doze and completely heedless to the fact that he has forsaken any pretense of discretion behind the Apple key board box and is now raking with abandon at his clearly vermin infested nether regions. The populace of the bus has summarily dropped all laissez-faire and are collectively staring at the human train wreck, open-mouthed, somehow we skipped the tittering stage and are in full on holyfuckingmotherofchrist mode. And still he scratched and rakes, crossing and uncrossing his legs, you can hear 40 people sigh the sigh of the resigned urbane when at last he sticks his chubby hand down the front of his sweats and begins rubbing his itchy in earnest. Nino sits on my lap ignored and I struggle to tear my eyes away, knowing that I will have to remove my eyeballs once safely ensconced in my corporate cubicle, and dip them in the handy-dandy vat of bleach I keep under my desk for my various muni travails. Having watched enough medical shows as a kid I feel I can safely deduce that heavy-lidded, sleepy-eyed man had a serious case of crabs, and what he needs is a full body wax and fumigation. I will tell you I have never seen a bus full of people exit so quickly by the back door sporting each and all that particular grimace worn by a seven year old who has just been exposed to cooties.



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