Friday, April 4, 2008

Time To Shoot The Hound


location: Washington D.C. Greyhound Station
tone: Nasty
statistics:
1 (tickets to Charlottesville purchased)
6 (times I was convinced I was smelling my own boogers)
1 (people who, without a doubt, were teenage runaways on their way out of town)
More than stars in the sky (dogs disrespected)

I feel like a fat man just sneezed wet and productive all over my freshly shaved head. Of course I do. I just came from the Greyhound station. 

Now, unlike most people I know who consider riding the Greyhound to be grosser than eating used gum, I have been on and off the Hound my whole life.  She took me from the Connecticut winter to the Florida endless summer, onward to the St. Louis flatlands, and back home to Ridgefield at least half a dozen times, all 24 hours (+) trips. Shit, the Hound half saved my life when I was 19. Old Girl brought me home from the middle of the Mojave after a botched hitch trip. but. buT. bUT. BUT! There comes a day in all dogs life when the pup has got to be put down. It's my unbiased, heartfelt, sing-song opinion that we all chip in and buy the Greyhound Corporation a giant treat, let it sleep on the bed for once, and then tell the lady folk to take a stroll while we shoot it out back.

Here is a list, in no particular order, why it is time to shoot the Hound.

1. Just outside the door leading to the Atlanta bus was a stack of boxes labeled '30 dozen eggs' that was at least 6-feet-high. Not sure this is a reason to shut down a bus company, but I feel like you'll agree that this detail somehow services my point.
2. The Peter Pan Bus symbol is a magnet for pedderasses. 
3. The chubby black man in line behind me danced with his hands while we waited. He had no headphones on. There was no music playing. His hands looked like graceful and beautiful chubby brown dolphins. It inspired me to song, and screw all that. 
4. That same man was chatting to another woman in line. He said, 'Man, the Greyhound can take you anywhere. You know if it's international yet?' I turned around and told him there's a new bullet bus to Prague. I didn't, but still, we should discourage movement among people such as the dolphin hand dance man.
5. The man in front of me in line was wearing a bright yellow life jacket. He had grey, unwashed hair. A rat tail hung over his life jacket. He was shaking. He must have had Parkinson's, one of those really sad diseases. He was the type of guy the Beatles were singing about in Eleanor Rigby. If we shut down the Greyhound maybe this man will die, which would be good for everyone.
6. A fat man was sleeping on the benches with his mouth wide open. TOTALLY gross.
7. There were wet spots on the floor everywhere. I tried to dry them. they.would.not.dry.
8. Then there was the issue of those runaways. Greyhounds make it easy to be a runaway, therefore aiding and abetting runawayism, also known as Tater Tot Syndrome. 
9. The Greyhound station had at least 45 video games, all flashing and beeping, none being used, none I've heard of. Here are the real names: Arctic Thunder. Rush 2049. Time Crisis III. Fatal Judgment. There was one I had heard of: Ms. Pacman. There she was, lounging like a circular tramp. She was the sexiest thing in the room. Which should be No. 10.
10. Any establishment where Ms. Pacman is the sexiest person therein is bad for America, and should be boarded up by the sheriff post-haste.
11. The woman at the counter was a fucking idiot. Maybe she was retarded. Her accent was so thick who can tell?
12. A man who clearly was going nowhere and coming from same said nowhere stared at me as I walked out. He was wearing Kurt Rambis goggles and a flannel shirt. If we do away with the Greyhound, we can force fellas like these to work in the mines, like they used to do in the good old days when America made sense. 

Blessed art Thou, Lord our God, who takes away the Scourge of the Greyhound of the Earth.

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