Move. That. Bus.

This past weekend, I trekked up to Boston for the Women in Comedy Festival.  And since my self-loathing has hit an all-time high, I decided to take the bus to get there.  As I walked over to the makeshift bus depot made up of random chains, dirty shoelaces, and tears, I tried to reserve my judgment.

“How bad could it be?” I wondered, out loud, and also, on Twitter.

Lucky for you guys, I am not prone to exaggeration of any kind.  I report the facts just as they occurred, much like those truth-tellers over at Fox News. Furthermore, riding the bus to Boston from New York gave me new insight into Rihanna’s song about finding love in a hopeless place.  There is now no doubt in my mind that she met Chris Brown on a bus.  They likely bonded over a shared case of post-trauamtic stress disorder, or a bag of stale pizza-flavored combos.

I was told to wait on a line on the side of the road, and was left there to size up the other passengers.  Things already looked grim, and they smelled even worse, like an upsetting combination fish flavored hummus and middle school children.  This concerned me as we were about to embark on a closed-window journey that was predicted to last at least four hours.  I boarded the bus, and strategically chose a seat the top of the stairs.  I figured, if I needed to escape, I could throw myself down the stairs and insist that an ambulance take me the rest of the way to Boston.

After settling in, the bus driver began his pre-departure ritual of starting/stopping every two seconds until we had left the island of Manhattan.  But, as it turns out, he enjoyed this so much, that he decided to do it for the rest of the ride as well.

I began to feel nauseous before even boarding the bus, so to say I was sick to my stomach at this point would be a bit of an understatement.  It was also around this time that my phone died, and so, I knew: all was lost.

I began rocking back and forth, murmuring, “The wheels on the bus go round and round, round and round, round and round” over and over again like a mantra.  I began thinking that this must have been how those folks on the Carnival Cruise must have felt right before literal pieces of poop came sliding down the wall.  Then I wondered if I still had time to take a cruise ship up to Boston instead as that sounded preferable.

Finally, the bus came to a complete stop.  I opened one eye, and then the other, because I was feeling like a frightened cartoon character.  Had we reached our destination?  Was I finally going to wake from this nightmare?  I peered over my seat mate to see if I could read the highway sign.

It read: “Yankee Stadium, 2 miles.”

Here’s the bus I should have taken.

 

One thought on “Move. That. Bus.

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