#15: Magellan by guest blogger, "Dandy Rider"

While I do ride with enough fucktards to warrant this blog, there are a few riders who I can actually get on board with. This rider is not only one of the best dressed people I have ever witnessed in my life (and I work in fashion when I'm not lambasting 167-ers), but, also, I can truly say that this rider's rapier wit is just as sharp as their style. I am, therefore, honored to introduce you to, Dandy Rider, our guest blogger. Hopefully, this is just the first of many Dandy blogs to come. And, without further adieu, Dandy brings you, "#15: Magellan":

Could it be? The day where I have a seamless commute?  I’m out the door on time.  It’s not sweltering, no monsoons. The gills I’ve developed from all the goddamned rain are finally closing up.  Sure, the bus is a little late, but no one is on. Is everyone else on vacation?  We cruise down the main thoroughfare, which usually has as many stops as Charlie Sheen has genital herpes lesions, but amazingly, there are no stops.  No one on, no one off.  HEAVEN!  Mind you, this is the longest of the routes, the 167 local. 

Once in Teaneck, though, we stop to pick up three Orthodox families and all the kids.  In other words, it’s a synagogue up in there. Apparently, we ’kin do it because we are all carrying iced coffees or Coolattas (or whatever the fuck they serve there these days). So much for no drinks or food on the bus…

Even still, I'm happy.  Sure, some of the kids don’t want to sit next to the other, and some asshole is having a very loud job interview on the phone, but, hey, times are tough.  Maybe if he lands the job he’ll drive to work and get off the bus.  Fuck the environment, I just want a peaceful ride to work.

My mind drifts off for a minute when I hear a collective groan from the masses.  Having not been paying attention, I look around, not immediately recognizing where I am.  Hey, this isn’t the Turnpike! We can’t be going on Route 80 West! Oh, but we can. 

Now, remember, since I was lost in bus nirvana I was not paying attention in the least, so I don’t know if there was a detour or something, but I am aware that this is NOT good.  The now very nervous driver gets off in Hackensack and seems a bit frantic and disoriented.  Trying to be helpful I loudly say, “Go into the jughandle, and back onto Route 80 East.” For those who aren’t aware of the pleasures of Garden State driving, you should understand that New Jersey was built by some dyslexic contortionist with  a bad sense of direction. There is no reason why a sane person should be forced to drive three miles out of the way, looking for U-Turn signs to go back, but that’s not the driver’s fault. That’s just the masochism of New Jersey civil engineers. But I digress. The driver shouts back, “I know exactly where I am,” only to proceed in the wrong direction — far, far, far away from where we needed to go, and, instead, into…a strip mall.

Oh, I’m dead serious! And, instead of staying on the perimeter, he wants to go joyriding up and down the lanes. I can barely get up and down those things in my SUV without having some frantic senior with macular degeneration running into me, so I’m curious to see how this douchebag is going to manage this.

Needless to say, NOT well.  We are now landlocked by the dammed parking lot islands in front of Taco Fucking Bell. Yo no quiero Taco Bell. Yo quiero to get to fucking work sometime TODAY. Now the Hadasa bus is getting a little nervous. First, I’m willing to bet the driver's left nut that Taco Bell isn’t Kosher, and second, all those fucking Coolattas have been slurped down, and now there are a bunch of little dreidels who are spinning, gotta pee, and want off the bus. Me too!

After going back and forth a gazillion times and making some illegal left turns, we are finally back on the road, and we somehow miraculously manage to get to the Port Authority only an hour late.

I had the perfect picture of the driver looking panicked in the rearview mirror with his name placard directly above, but, instead, got a photo of a bald spot when the guy in front of me waddled into frame.

Needless to say, it was not the perfect morning commute, but there’s always tomorrow…

—Dandy Rider

Editor's Note: It's imperative to note that on the day that Dandy was on the Taco Bell bus, Gidget, the famous Taco Bell chihuahua died. Make of that you what you will...RIP Gidget. 

#14: The Back Seat Driver

I dread — dread — taking the last bus out of the Port Authority. It's just filled with drunks and the biggest social retards the 167 has ever chauffeured. It becomes like the 167 of the 167.

This guy is the KING of all 167-ers, the Sultan of Stupidity, the Messiah of Mental Midgets, and a testament to the fact that everyone can find someone cause this dude is actually married. 

He always, always sits in the front seat, which, you know, I get it. I love the front seat, too. But I mean somehow this dude is also magically the first guy on the bus always. It's as though the white horse of the bus pulls up, but instead of Prince Charming, it's holding his illegitimate, one-eyed, drooling, guffawing dumbass brother, whom the family locks away when anyone visits. He is self-designated as the bus host/tour guide since he's always leaning forward when people board, checking everyone out, ready with a quip, anecdote, or jab.

Guess what, Captain Asshole? Nobody asked for your opinion.

If someone asks the driver a question (and believe me, at that time of night the questions run the gamut from, "Can I carry this plant on here?" to, "OK so you don't go to Ridgewood, but would you drive me there anyway?") the Back Seat Driver answers for him and he totally gets off on knowing the answers, too. I know. I practically heard him jizzing in his pants in this video below. No shit, moron, the help person really carries a clipboard? How is it possible that you're not a fucking rocket scientist?

As if that wasn't bad enough, homeboy won't shut the fuck up once the doors close, either. He proceeds to regale the bus driver with the minutiae of his sad, worthless little life — loudly. 

Nobody gives a fuck.

I now know all about his son's dating problems (he can't get any) and how nobody appreciates him at work (at NASA, no doubt). Truth be told, based on what he was telling the driver, I believe his son is probably a raging, rainbow-and-unicorn-loving, Cher-adoring, meatpacking-is-more-than-a-district, closeted homosexual. But his father will either never figure this out, or he'll never admit it. He's just convinced his art-loving, Broadway-afficionado of a son is just too "shy" to meet girls.

It makes me want to yell at him, "RICHARD SIMMONS HAS HIT MORE VAJAY THAN YOUR SON!"

I really hate people who can see, but are blind. 

153 more to go!

#13: Israel Kamakawhydidthisparentsdothistohim?

Somewhere over the rainbow, Israel never got to meet his doppelgänger:

#12: Yo Mama

I was on the last bus out of the Port Authority in the wee hours of Saturday morning when I rubbed my bleary eyes raw in order to make sure I wasn't hallucinating.

This chicken fried Charo squeezed onto the bus with her daughter (the pubescent one standing and talking on the cell), and they proceeded to CliffsNotes their magical, whore-iffic evening together.

I would’ve paid more attention to what they were saying, but I was too hypnotized by the blue light hanging between the mother’s saggy breasts, which were threatening to poke out the eye of the dude sitting next to me. He wouldn’t have minded, though. He was so loaded he probably wouldn't have even noticed if one smacked him upside his bald head.

I know it must have looked like I was trying to burn a hole in her chest, but given the woman’s age I could've sworn that was Heart of the Ocean dangling between her tube socks filled with bowling balls. It wasn't. I was so disappointed when I [finally] made out the Coors Light logo on the pendant, but then it naturally begged the question as to how many times the grandmother mother had heard, "I'd like to taste your Rockies."

I was about to inquire that very question (what? I have a healthy curiosity) when Dina and Lindsay rang the bell for their stop. I then promptly left my mother a voicemail berating her for not exposing herself and accompanying me out to clubs wearing remnant curtain fabric from the Persians' dumpsters and a Coors Light light-up necklace atop her buh-bies. 

Sheesh. We'll see what Mother's Day gift I get her next year.

155 to go!

BONUS BLOG: The Crazy, Retarded, Racist Cross-Eyed Woman Returns!

Let it be said that every single 167 Short Bus blog entry is reported accurately and without exaggeration. They are all wonderfully freakish situations that happen entirely on their own, without any prompting from myself. That said, there are moments (as I am human after all) where I can't help but nudge a little incident, but let me assure you that it is all for the benefit of you, my good reader.

This is one of those instances:

I get on the bus yesterday. I am literally the last one on. I have to sit aaaaalll the way in the back. When we get to the first stop, the bus clears out so I move up because Rosa Parks was the shit and paved the way for me to be able to do so. Anyway, after I settle into a seat near the front of the bus, I’m enjoying a relatively quiet ride when I hear, “PUT THE ARM DOWN!” followed by a thwack! I look in the direction of the commotion only to see…

…CRAZY, RETARDED, RACIST CROSS-EYED WOMAN! (click hyperlink for reference)

Yes, she was sitting in the front row in the window seat. She apparently did NOT like it when the person who was sitting next to her (on the aisle) got up without putting the arm rest down. Which arm rest, you ask? Was she upset that the one between them remained in an upright position? No. No, folks, the Crazy, Retarded, Racist Cross-Eyed Woman was actually pissed that the guy who had been sitting next to her (yes, he was black) put his arm rest up — yes, the one on the aisle, and, therefore, furthest away from CRRCE Woman — and didn’t put it down.

Cuckoo! Cuckoo! (0:08 in)

This is what I would call a golden opportunity. ::big shit-eating grin::

I move up to the seat next her. Right away, I put my arm rest up. I get the video camera on my phone ready.

::big shit-eating grin::

I ring the bell to get off at my stop. I stand up. My ass is not even entirely off the seat when the cracktard that she is, reaches over and slams the arm rest down, all while giving me the cross-eyed stink eye — which, as you can imagine, is very attractive.

Unfortunately, I didn’t get capture any of her expression, but you can clearly see her arm slamming.

What I want to know is: how can the cross-eyed bitch even see that the arm rest is up? Her peripheral has to suck, right?

I may be going to hell, but she's coming with me.

#11: Jerky Boy

Watch the video below. Note how many times you hear the squeaky sound of the pedal. Gives new meaning to pedal to the metal, doesn’t it?

Yeah, I know what you’re thinking. You’re thinking, “So what? The dude rode his brakes a little. Maybe he was sitting in traffic and didn’t want to speed up, slow down, speed up…”

No.

The sound you hear over and over again in the video? That’s the sound of the GAS pedal, my friends. Do you know what happens when you depress the gas all the way, take your foot of the gas entirely and then depress the gas pedal again sequentially like that?  The result is a ride akin to sitting on of those mechanical rocket or pony rides for children that are usually outside of supermarkets . Super jerky.

I know homeboy is probably used to driving a rickshaw or something, but seriously, the gas pedal has a lot of room in between "all the way to the floor" and "completely off the gas." If you want a smooth ride, all you have to do is ease your foot halfway up and idle somewhere in the middle. Of course, this is all assuming you can reach the pedal in the first place, which I believe was part of his problem. Because he couldn't entirely reach the gas, he had to essentially "jab" at the gas pedal, resulting in a ride that feels like you're getting rammed in the ass by a nine-ton behemoth. 

It just made me wonder what else he likes to poke at in a less than appealing way...

156 more to go!