Where do they get off on judging me? I don't go to their meetings and bother them about cleaning their lives up and getting on the "right track" and being a "positive role model" for people in the community do I? (Oh wait there was that one time I got really drunk and did do that.)
Anyways, after another night of drinking and meeting Hulk Hogan of all people, I was very hungover and wondering what kind of life I was leading. As I sat there in the hell that is public transit, this rather odd young man in full on suit and tie sat beside me and started up a conversation. He was probably 18 years old at the most and looked like Mad Magazine mascot Alfred E. Neuman in that attire with the red hair teeth to match. I honestly tried not to laugh at him as laughing would hurt my alcohol addled brain.
Alfred E. NeumanHe started off this rambling conversation with the standard template of complaining about the weather and as with most people these days, had no qualms with swearing like he was at a knife fight in Puerto Rico at 3 in the morning.
He said to me, "It's pretty fuckin' hot out there, fuck I hate this weather sometimes." I turned my attention to him as I realized he was talking to me. "Well dressed like that you're probably dying in this heat." He smirked a bit and said, "Yeah fuck man, I had a fuckin' job interview, well two job interviews, fuck I just want to get home and get out of this suit. This kind of weather ya gotta shower two three times a day." I just nodded and said, "It can be brutal."
"I hope fuckin' get the fuckin' job. I had to get all dressed up. Fuck." I somehow think he didn't get the job at either place. If he talked anything like he was now he probably only succeeded in either A.) Pissing off the employer or B.)Making them secretly laugh.
I hoped for his sake that he didn't have what appeared to be part of a carrot stuck to his teeth during the interview like he did now but for the comedy show in my mind it would be more humorous if he did.
He then started to talk about various heat related ailments and somehow he started in on how the weather is worse in the States. He said, "I fuckin' hate how my step-dad keeps the house so fuckin' cold with the fucking air conditioning on all the time down there." I added to this brainiac convention's plethora of musings such astute observations as, "Americans perception of temperature is different than ours. What they consider cold in some places is t-shirt weather to us. They go to the beach and where jogging pants and a hoodie." Naturally our young, job seeking, future of our country replied, "Yeah what the fuck huh, go to the beach in fuckin' jogging pants and get wet. Be fucking hard to walk around I bet."
I was kind of wondering what kind of nutcase am I dealing with here now, that was kind of a bizarre response but I'll keep this going.
"Yeah they fuckin' talk weird down there too. They go OOOOOOHHH AAHHHHHH in the way the talk. Like they talk like, you know, the fuckin' Crocodile Hunter." Now he was speaking in a Australian accent. "Oi am from Lou-weez-e-anna! Or Texas, yeah they talk funny like that too. I can't fuckin' stand it."
"Well we don't really have to deal with them that much," I said, "you may not realize it but we have an accent too, I phoned into a radio show and taped myself and listened back and I sounded like Bob and Doug McKenzie." He just kind of laughed and said,"Oh yeah eh!" I don't think he was old enough to understand who those Hosers were but in an odd way, he channeled them.
Then I said they pronounce words differently too, like how in some parts of the States they say door stoop instead of step or r-uh-f instead of r-oo-f or R-ut beer instead of R-oo-tbeer. He again just sort of laughed and thought about it for awhile.
"Yep, they sure are fuckin' weird down there. I'd like to go to like to go to fuckin' Paris or something you know. I wonder what kind of food they eat there?" I said to him, "Probably French food I would figure. Fancy stuff."
"Probably real fuckin' fancy." Such clarity of thought this young gentleman has! Naturally there is an older gentleman who gets on the bus and sits across from me because I was sitting up at the front because I think I would have fell over if I tried to walk to the back. I could tell he didn't much care for the language this kid was using. I noticed it but kept the conversation going because I like it when people are uncomfortable. He probably also wasn't impressed with me as I look like a biker that just got out of the all you can eat at this point in the day. Alfred E. Neuman keeps on with his F-bomb laced rambling and we are officially getting glares of contempt from Pops who just sat down.
Not too much later, the bus pulls up to a stop and this Indo-Canadian couple gets on the bus. The woman was wearing her hair up in a ponytail and had these really nice bracelets with diamonds (well they at least looked like them, for all I know it could be some cubic zirconium deals) and she had those henna tattoos all over her arms and hands and on her feet. Needless to say, she looked very elegant. Too elegant to be on the bus with such creeps as myself and Alfred here. Her boyfriend or whatever he was, was just in regular clothes and had a big beard and glasses, nothing too out of the ordinary.
Now our new friend waits until they sit down before he says to me the following gem of political correctness, "That east-indian lady was fuckin' hot! Smells funny but..." and smiles. I don't really know what to say at this point so I just shrug my shoulders and agree.
Then he gets back on to how he wants to go to Venice and go tubing in the "fuckin' canals." I told him they probably wouldn't let you do that but he had came to the same realization.
"They'd probably fuckin' stop you and ticket or fine you or some fuckin' thing." he noted, "be fuckin' weird, all the streets are like water and shit."
As we neared the bus stop, he wanted very badly to: "Get off this fuckin' bus and fuckin' drink a beer, fuck drink anything, fuckin' smoke some weed!" He was almost getting mad that he was on the bus and not loaded. I on the other hand was starting to finally kind of feel better than I was, wishing to never drink again.
"Well, finally off of this fuckin' bus." he proclaimed. I didn't really say anything but he turned to me again and said, "See ya man...trippy fuckin' shirt."
All that giant conversation was because he was intrigued by my Bubba Army t-shirt. What a pointless ending to a pointless story!
