Bus Stations

Gracious friends, I know I have been slack in my blogging as of late, but I have to tell ya, I'm just happy to be alive, having spent last weekend in not one but two bus stations.

I mean to tell you, the bus station contains a sector of society previously unrecorded above ground. These folks seem to only exist in the dim lights and cement floors of an underground tunnel. It's like an experiment in human socialization with no control group!

I don't mean to say that everyone who's ever taken a bus falls into this dejected category, but there are a certain species among use who consider the fast-food joints of a train station to be actual restaurants. These are the same folks who consider Cinnabon part of a balanced breakfast, and you can see those honeybuns have balanced quite well on their backsides as they lumber through the station.

Anyway, I'm not sayin they're bad folks, but they are a certain kind of folk - the kind without all their teeth, actually. I don't care if they grew there or you bought them, but if you are walking around in society without a full set of chompers, you need to get up from the computer right this instant and go get you some. Not the bus station folks though, no they're walking about toothless, shoeless, senseless. I mean who in their right mind would take the Greyhound across country? I could barely stand my 2 hours trek down I-95, can you even imagine being on that urinal-smelling monolith for a week? I'd have stabbed myself in the eye within the first 4 hours!

I know you're asking, "why Queenie, if you're so high and mighty why were you ridin coach class," and that's a very fair question. You see darlins', I do these things for y'all, so that you don't have to experience such atrocities and can learn from my misfortunes....well, that and it's a helluvfa lot cheaper than the train! But trust me, after this last time, I won't ever be boardin' the bus again. Not after spending 3 hours in the sweltering heat with every indigent in Christendom tryin to talk me into donating to their dinner fund. One man asked if I was a model, and considering I was dripping sweat, wearing no makeup, and sporting a suntan mustache, one can assume that he don't get outta the terminal too often.

No friend, the bus station is not a place you wanna be. When I finally arrived at my destination, I felt the need to Purell every area of my body that had touched anything. I still don't feel clean. I don't care if I have to scrape together every penny for a year, I'm flying from now on...and I suggest you do the same.