Beware The Gnashing Of Tard Teeth
New tard on the bus! (I always feel that trumpets should accompany that statement… not the general announce-the-king variety, but the type that precedes a barbarian (mongol-oid?) horde descending upon its enemies.) And, to my approval, this one has that magical 21st chromosome. Yes, an actual member of the Down Syndrome tribe — a rare find in the Green Mountain State, and not to be confused with the run-of-the-mill white trash fatties wearing oversized kitten-faced t-shirts, stinking of nicotine and griping about EVERYTHING in their lives… even in the light of comparable IQs. Needless to say, it was a red-letter day for feeding my odd fascination with tards. And this one was top shelf all the way…
I’m going to have to be decisive here and say that this one was female. No real giveaways from a physical standpoint, but the flowered, heavily-quilted jacket (in mid-July!) makes me choose “girl” for this one. Call it a good guess. So, she’s up in the frontmost seat (where they always are — I think they like the giant windshield’s view, and you know they’d drive the bus if someone let them) and is staring at the plastic-encased wrist watch she has in her hands. The plastic is similar to the kind which batteries come in — thick and usually needing scissors to remove. But, not this tard. She proceeds to bite and gnaw at the package for an insane number of minutes. Like a gruesome car accident, I simply couldn’t take my eyes away from it, and my jaw might have actually dropped a little during the whole to-do. Hers was a display of dogged determination, juxtaposed with the coldest, blankest look in her eyes, like those of an emotionless killer. After about 10+ continuous minutes, she managed to chew off a large section of the plastic and her prize was soon in her grubby little mitts.
I was in total shock! I always heard that tards were stronger than us (and let’s be glad that they aren’t smart enough to overthrow us), but who knew that applied to their teeth? I’m not sure an angry pitbull could have gotten through that thick plastic in such time, but little Corkette pulled it off with the greatest of ease. I mean, she could take out a main artery in your neck if you got too close. At any rate, I am both impressed and alarmed. Apparently, time is very important to her. Or, she just likes the shiny metallic face and the tick-tock, tick-tock inside.
In CCTA news, it seems that some or all of the buses are now running on Biodiesel. Truthfully, those buses could run on the blood of ungrateful teenagers so long as I get to work on time. (Clearly, I am turning into Andy Rooney with that last sentiment. In case you’re curious, he’s bitching about milk this month. Go, Andy! Is it possible that you will NEVER die?)
And, although this isn’t local bus news, I rode a Greyhound to southern New England last weekend and back, and now have the following observations for you as a result: 1) The man behind the wheel wants you to refer to him as the “motorcoach operator.” How evasive of reality is THAT language? Since when did “bus driver” become not good enough? 2) A black fellow complained to his seatmate that he had to endure an entire 5-hour busride without a television broadcast on the available in-coach monitors (except for the fact that I’m paraphrasing it in far more eloquent terms). No TV! How terrible for him. Too bad books were banned in 1984 or he could shut the fuck up and read one of those instead. 3) When the bus driver wishes us a Happy Presidents Day in July, it is not funny. Not even vaguely humorous. But, the fact that I seemed in the observant minority amongst other passengers, who appeared to not “get the joke,” was, in and of itself, a joke. And a little bit funny. 4) Money-begging bums in South Station are not getting more creative. They also don’t take refusals with a smile like they should. Fucking bums. 5) No one wants to go to Burlington, Vermont… at all. The line for my bus back was FIVE people long while the lines for every other bus were 80-100+ people apiece. And 6) The inimitable Bill M. met me for both of my layovers. He’s not just Bill. He’s SuperBill. Fact!