Bus Wanker (re-post)
In light of the new winter bus timetables released by the First Cornwall Bus Group (which now appear to have as much disregard for public transport as 1940s Poland-bound freight trains) I couldn’t help bus re-post an oldie but a goodie. Although he does says so himself… and in the third person. Pretentious shit.
I own a pink driver’s license, but I do not own a car. I find cars too great a risk in light of a recent inability to determine whether images behind a piece of glass are real or not. High-definition technology is half to blame, the other half suppressed primeval inclinations toward indiscriminate homicide.
I once watched Star Wars Episode I: The Phantom Menace in 3D in a cinema which also had rumbling seats. Whilst I do generally enjoy high speeds and bumpy rides, I vowed from that day onward never to step foot into a pod-racer driven by a fatherless eight year old boy with a bowl haircut ever again. Not only was my vintage Adidas Star Wars t-shirt left stained with regurgitated orange tango, I also found myself defecating into a box of salted popcorn in the belief that the reduced weight would aid in winning Anikan’s freedom and the T-14 hyperdrive generator necessary escape the barren deserts of Tatooine.
The instructor who awarded me my pink driver’s license (after failing me the first time) was called Mr. McGee, which in hindsight I find utterly hilarious. At the time, however, I found no opportunity to indulge in its evident hilarity. I was too preoccupied with the decision of whether I was going to instigate a sexual favour to this Weetos Professor-resembling old man or threaten to Thelma and Louise the car into the local harbour, slowly drowning us both in an extravagant act of homicide-suicide, if he were to fail me again. As the oily harbour water seeped through the ventilation system and killed his dual controls, I would use our last few minutes of air to torment him over how ridiculously fucking hilarious his name was.
In joining the cattle of morning bus wankers I wake at 6.55am five days a week, an hour before its due departure. That is unless I wake at 6.00am to go to the park and do handstands until 6.50am with an eye to arrive back home for 6.55am, maintaining the necessary hour before the wanker bus departs at 07:55.
It has been proven that regular morning handstands improves your intelligence throughout the rest of the day by encouraging vasodilation to the brain. Since spending more time upside down than ever before, I can now make a boiled egg roll without touching it and cause people to feel insecure by merely staring at them consistently for prolonged periods of time. This is why sloth’s are scientifically proven to be the most intelligent animals in the world by the equation “time inverted ÷ speed = intelligence” and are generally unnerving to behold, despite their apparently docile demeanor.
Morning exercise also encourages me to shower, which I usually find unnecessary unless my skin tastes of salt. I have developed the ‘salt-and-lick method’ which requires a precise salinity comparison between various pieces of skin and equations as complex as that used to scientifically determine animal intelligence. Somewhere I read that over-showering has been proven to confuse the sebaceous glands and cause them to produce semen instead of sebum, and vice-versa. Whilst potentially leaving a male with a very clean and conveniently oily penis, I feel such benefits far outweigh the cons of potentially resembling the filthy whore of a bukake porn flick every time I break a sweat. As such, I will continue to promote the salt-and-lick method.
>>NOTE: If I have spelled ‘bukake’ incorrectly it is because I am too wary of searching its correct spelling on my work computer for fear of losing my job. I found it hard enough to explain away the hundreds of horse dick pictures which returned when image searching ‘farm equipment’, so I can’t imagine twelve Japanese men simultaneously ejaculating onto the face of a 4’10” 85lb crying Japanese school-girl as she kneels bound at the wrists and ankles is likely to be any easier.
I will also note that the only spell-check suggestion I am given is ‘rebuke’ which, by both definition and implementation, actually seems to function well enough as a synonymous alternative to be worthy of note:
- express sharp disapproval or criticism of (someone) because of their behaviour or actions:
rebukedbukake’d him for drinking too much’
‘the judge publicly
rebukedbukake’d the jury‘
- an expression of sharp disapproval or criticism:
‘he hadn’t meant it as a
rebukebukake, but Neil flinched‘
It’s interesting that Oxford English would choose ‘Neil’ as the unsuspecting individual flinching at an unintentional ‘bukake’ (accidents happen; perhaps his ‘bukakers’ had requested Neil – he may even be a dermatologist, we aren’t even granted that information – to inspect suspicious sebaceous gland activity in the belief they had been over-showering, only for the climactic contrary to be revealed) as I have always been convinced that ‘Neil’ is the most common name among bus wankers in general. Even the female.
Neil is a particularly rebellious name as it refuses to recognise the loose grammatical rule “i before e, except after c”. In fact, it goes as far to highlight the mockery of its own insubordination in light of its ironic homophonic counterpart ‘kneel’. A Neil would never kneel to a grammatical inconsistency. Neil would never kneel, not for a free meal of congealed seal from a creel fashioned from steel, served with soggy pear-peel wheeled in by Ian Beale speaking a spiel with zeal in creole on how a free meal is a steal. The only instance Neil might well kneel, is if he is a dermatologist, approached by a group of twelve Japanese men, simultaneously complaining of an inverted production of sebum and semen, as a possible result of over-showering.
To avoid self-incrimination, I will admit to being a bus wanker to the extent of owning a weekly bus ticket only, not by way of insufficient authoritative permission to the control of one-and-a-half metric tons plus of volatile steel and upholstery capable of travelling at velocities in excess of 120MPH in a 30MPH zone, eradicating multiple family generations simultaneously in a moment of mis-control due to distractions such as hurling abuse from the driver’s window at a bus-wanker-wagon travelling at four miles per hour in the opposite direction with its cargo of androgynous Neil’s refusing to kneel for anyone unless they are either a practicing dermatologists or sucking off Mr. McGee who fails them for their driving tests anyway despite their ‘rebukes’, because their name is Neil and Neil’s are bus wankers who belong on overpriced bus-wanker-wagons.
They should have taken my advice and Thelma and Louise’d the car into the local harbour.