#16: The Ladies' Man

This inbred turd was apparently gunning for some McLovin' on his way to Jersey.  With his thick accent (read: drunken, Southern slurs), it’s hard to make out most of what he’s saying, but here’s what I could make out:

 “…some Pepto Bismol…and when I get there we’re gonna dance the freak dance…and later on we might end up doing something [inaudible]. I’m just playin. “

First of all, why is it that drunk people are very LOUD? Is it to compensate for the absolute lack of clarity? While it doesn’t sound it on the video (bear in mind the bus is obnoxiously LOUD, what with all the other drunks cackling loudly), I can assure you Cotton-Eyed Joe here was so loud, Helen Keller could’ve heard him.

Second, it should be noted that Mr. Git 'Er Done also had a tattoo of Bob Marley, which the woman standing and encouraging (read: talking) to the ladies’ man caressed and shouted approvingly. Now I love me some Bob just like anyone else, however, this guy and Bob Marley would be like Courtney Love sporting a tat of the Mensa logo.

Lastly, (and most importantly) nothing says loving like digestive-aid liquid and whatever in god’s name the “freak dance” is. I mean, he may as well have said he had anal leakage…in a hot tub. 

151 more to go!

#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!