ON THE BUS THROUGH HADES

Had I known what I was in for I might have caught a later bus. But I had spent the entire day babysitting special people (well, THEY think they're special) and I was keen to escape from deepest Fudgebunkum, Marin County. It had been frustrating. The senile delinquents had arrived early to watch the game, probably because their kinfolk did not want them around screaming their damned fool heads off. They were extremely vocal and full of caffeine.
The San Francisco team lost, by the way. Good.

In the front of the bus, there were a mommy, a daddy, a pizza, and an angelic blond tyke. The little fellow had eaten, and was full of himself. He kept singing the first stanza of the Wheels On The Bus Song.
It took an hour to get to San Francisco.
He sang the whole time.


"The wheels on the bus go round and round, round and round ... "


This explained why the bus driver looke frantic when I boarded. I sat in the back and was quite frazzled by the time we passed the car wash on Bridgeway. By the time we went by Carl The Store and the attached coffee place, I was wondering what would happen if I went up to the front of the bus and carefully explained to the adorable little goblin "not the Eagles, kid, I've had a long day and I hate the f***ing Eagles!" What restrained me was the certain knowledge that the precious infant was probably a fragile flower, likely to be traumatized, and I didn't want to be part of the chain of events leading up to him taking his dad's machine gun to a therapy session. Or blowing his brains out during swim class because of his horrible psychological problems, polluting the pool and thereby forcing poor Dolphin and Moonbeam to have it completely cleaned of biological waste, as well as hiring a shaman to perform crystal purification rites and burn sage. Far better that someone else do that.
Little pizza-stuffed spoiled bitch brat monster.

One solid hour of "the wheels on the bus, round and round and round and round.
And round. And round. And round. And round.

The only thing that keeps me from advocating that precious adorable totally cute little white kiddie winkies be clubbed to death like baby harp seals is the knowledge that I myself was something like that, once. So actually, there is hope. They don't all grow up to be insufferable adults of the Karen persuasion or morons screaming at the television over a damned ballgame. I like to think that I've finally turned out quite decently. At long last.

Unlike the men I deal with at work, curse their rotten souls and spongy hearts.

Possibly because no one taught me the Wheels On The Bus song.
Or Baby Shark, Baby Shark. Both of those lead to brain rot.


I've had quite a day. Good heavens.



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