Tuesday, May 5, 2009

The wheels on the noggin go round and round

I'm glad there's no such thing as hell, because if there was, it wouldn't consist of Dante's malebranche poking my ass with red hot filthy pitchforks; dipping me and my flailing limbs in boiling seas of sulfur; covering my open, festering wounds with blankets of vermin ridden with the most virulent strains of disease; nor forcing me into horizontal bopping with a leather-clad Karl Rove, but something far more mundane, an abyss devoid of visceral, horrifying, sensation; c'est-à-dire, anything resembling, painful or not, life:

I am seated on a bus, a technogizmo chock full of soaring symphonies and flesh shredding metal in my pocket, my blessed shield against external distraction, yet my headphones, out of the blue, die over and over, the feeling of disappointment cycling fresh with each passing second, the vehicle populated with the vague stench of stale cigarettes, sweat and quotidian annoyances: a whining baby, a parent whose rising voice quickly reveals they can't handle it, someone talking too loud on their cell phone, an iPod on eleven blaring crap I loathe with all of my soul as I'm unable to drown its marching wail out, an old man sporting a toupee worthy of a bad TV comedy sketch carrying on the most banal conversations with anyone who'll listen while my bones are being pressed against the windowpane by some hulking behemoth formed of nothing but wifebeater-encased muscle, potato chip flab and the putrescent odors of the armpit with a side of garlic and salami halitosis as each stop along the endless road piles in more and more fleshy nuisances to where the rusty frame of the bus has to crack lest our bodies be violently pushed through the breaking glass of windows, soon-to-be gangrenous cuts and blinding self-amputation a small price to pay for sweet, sweet freedom. But the bus only expands, coiling its rancid, suffocating grip ever tighter as more and more people get on than the bus can seemingly hold, senses overwhelmed, vexation bubbling in my gut, wishing I could vomit until the stomach is emptied, sandpaper dry heaves, delirium, blood, unconsciousness, coma, death. Rest. But I remain awake. Forever.

Oh, I bet I'd have forgotten my coffee mug, too, and the only beverage available in hell is warm Busch Light, so it's a good thing there's no way I'm ever getting off the bus, huh.

15 comments:

Lisa said...

Well, you just made me glad that there is absolutely zero public transportation available here.

Well done you.

Spartacus said...

Let's take the scene you described and set it on a New York City subway train during a midsummer heat wave. And instead of being squeezed into a seat, you're now standing with your cast of characters, sharing a metal pole with these sweaty-palmed, germ-infested cretins. You're also in a completely sealed car on this train that has no air conditioning. Finally, throw in the high probability of being stuck in between stations for an indeterminate and excruciating amount of time because of "police activity" or a "stop signal" or "congestion."

Now that, my friend, is Hell!

And it happens to someone here, at least once a day, everyday from May to September.

I hope this makes you feel better.

Randal Graves said...

lisa, actually, the bus ride in this morning wasn't too horrible. I was merely thinking of soul-crushing punishments.

spartacus, dude, it's hell, therefore already assumed to be extra barbecue-y. Of course, hell is perhaps Noo Yawk. See, make of fun of Cleveland will ya, ya cretins! Muahahahahaha, etc.

Utah Savage said...

Well at least you're moving. And I didn't give you that latest award, where you have to link to fifteen, yes 15, newish bloggers to torment them with linking to... How did you luck out? Do we just respect you too damn much? Wearing that death metal shield?

Scarlet W. Blue said...

"...horizontal bopping with a leather-clad Karl Rove...."

What is WRONG with you??? You must post WARNINGS before springing sick sh1t like that on unsuspecting peops. Don't make me vomit all over your blog.

Gee-zuss!

Dean Wormer said...

You could consider the bus hell or you can do what I like to do: start up a rousing round of "The wheels on the bus" to get everybody to sing.

That makes the ride nothing but a joy.

Tom Harper said...

Ah, brings back those halcyon memories of my bus commute.

Beach Bum said...

Right now I would rather deal with bus commuters than have to see, hear and feel the various antics of morning wackos. Such as near postal rednecks getting off night shift, self-absorbed yuppies pissed because they have to share the road, and non-working stay-at-home moms rushing to drop the baby off at daycare because they might be late for their morning tennis lesson.

susan said...

I'm so glad I'm a five minute walk away from my job. I walk home for lunch even when it's raining :-)

Dean W, I've heard busloads of Portlanders with voices raised in song. I never knew you were the choir director.

La Belette Rouge said...

Oh, hell exists. Trust me. Hell is here. It is going to be 105 degrees tomorrow. Rapid transportation? What is that?

S.W. anderson said...

Hell is a relative concept. Your bus ride qualifies, but it could be worse.

Imagine being chained to a chair in front of a TV where, hour after hour, day after day, you're treated to eight-hour blocks each of The View, Bill O'Reilly, The 700 Club and Lawrence Welk reruns, all of that interspersed with endless repetitions of Billy Mays and Nutrisystem commercials delivered at ear-splitting volume.

A few sleepless days and nights of that, Randal, and you'd welcome a dip in a sulferous soup or another bus commute.

Christopher said...

If there is a place called Hell, it would be a place reserved for tyrants, child rapists, and people who harm small animals.

A place without good French roast coffee, a place without good food, and a place with eternal winter.

Übermilf said...

Does Karl Rove's tummy spill out over the top of his leather pants?

Also, does he have body hair? He looks like he'd be a baldie all over, maybe covered in peach fuzz.

Does he have soft hands?

Randal Graves said...

utah, the only thing I should be respected for is skillfully avoiding work.

SWB, I'm not worried, the blog is coated with a non-stick surface. Vomit away.

dean, I hope you guys send a nice card when I'm recovering from my bullet wounds.

tom, good times, man, good times.

BB, forget Noo Yawk, I think your neck of the woods might be a branch office of hell.

susan, no please, rub it in.

And it must be all those Bill Walton's Own special brownies.

LBR, 105? Already?

SWA, hmm, that's an excellent entry. I think we should come up with a 64-team Hell-Off.

christopher, I'm with you on everything but the eternal winter.

übermilf, since I'm a Righteous Man, how would I know?

Dr. Zaius said...

Vomit seems to be a running theme in many of your recent posts...