The Fullerton Bus, and while I'm at it, My Whole Entire Block
I hate you, Fullerton Bus. I hate you when you are “Route 74! Fullerton! To Halsted!” and I hate you when you are “Route 74! Fullerton! To Grand! And Harlem!” I hate you at 7:45 in the morning (oh God, how I fucking hate you then), I hate you at 4:30 in the afternoon (all three-in-a-row, fuller than a deer-tick of you), and I hate you at any time of the night (if you even show up).
I hate your shit-ass morning driver who screams: “Everybody MOVE to the REAR of the BUS!” or plays the recording: “As a courtesy to boarding customers, please move to the rear” over and over again. Excuse me, shit-ass, this isn’t one of those big, nice, expanded accordion-style buses you’re driving. They save those for Lincoln Park and Old Town, where the white people live. This is the FULLERTON BUS, motherfucker! This is "Route 74! Fullerton!" There is no more “rear” we can move to! We are at capacity! If you are upset that the bus is so full and no one is moving to the Magical Mystery Rear (what’s in your coffee anyway, asshole?) then why do you persist in pulling the bus over to the bus stops when you KNOW these dumb bitches are going to cram their way in, no matter how full the bus is? And then, when we are all forced to butt-hump each other all the way to the L stop, why the FUCK do you jam on the brakes unnecessarily hard, causing us all to slam into one another? Because you’re a fucking asshole, that’s why. I hate you.
I hate all the high school students who ride you, with their bubble-gum breath and bad skin and matching polo T-shirts and stupid backpacks with ink writing on them and shrill, awful laughs. Look, bitch: in two years, you’re not only going to be fat and broke, but you’re going to be fat, broke, and pregnant, probably by one of those dumbasses in the back putting their huge dirty feet all over the seats, so how about you and your similarly-destined girlfriends don’t look at me and laugh at me like that. Thanks for riding; I hate you.
I hate the rude, loudmouthed mothers who scream at their kids on you, and then scream at the driver: “Why you ain’t take his transfer?” in reference to the third of her children who tried to board the bus using the same transfer, and when the driver explained why she ain’t take his transfer, Mom screams: “FUCK you! I ain’t need the transfer anyway!” You, Mom, are a fucking gem. A big, sweaty, Keds-wearing, child-bearing GEM. And I hate you.
I hate the 50-something pedophile who rides you. You know. The one with the graying buzz cut and fucked-up beady bat eyes. In his creepy denim shirt and his dingy backpack and his TJ Maxx tie. Really, Fullerton Bus, how can you in good conscience provide transportation to these people? Have you not noticed this guy? How can you not notice this guy, when sometimes he sits in one of the handicapped seats with his hand on your pole, jerking his hand slooooowly up and down your pole as if, AS IF FOR ALL THE WORLD, he was jerking you off? Jerking you off, usually while singing a hymn-sounding song (I kid you not) under his breath? Jerking you off in broad daylight, jerking off a BUS, just to feel a hard, vaguely cock-shaped thing in his hand? How can you let this slide, Fullerton Bus? Even if you like the compulsive pole-jerking, how can you let it be OK when he sidles up to every single young boy on board, places his clammy pedophiliac hand on their heads, and asks them what their name is? In case you’ve somehow missed this, Fullerton Bus, here is how it works:
PEDOPHILE: “What’s YOUR name?”
YOUNG BOY: “My name is . . . . . .!”
PEDOPHILE: “Where do YOU go to school?”
YOUNG BOY: “I go to . . . . .!”
PEDOPHILE: “What grade are YOU in?”
Etcetera. Fullerton Bus, why do you let this take place? Why, when it is painfully obvious that this man is a predatory boy-fucker who is using you as a way to hopefully find some prey? If one of the young boys happens to have a sister with him, who tries to offer HER name, and the name of HER school, the pedophile just ignores her—not that it would be OK for him to go after the little sister, but to me, the sister-ignoring just serves to throw his disgusting nature into even sharper relief than it already was. Fullerton Bus, I demand that you cease all relations with this pedophile.
Has anyone else seen the pedophile on the Fullerton Bus? Because I hate him.
Also, I hate you, My Whole Entire Block. I hate you with your car alarms, your honking horns, your blue-hair lady who walks up and down the alley bellowing for her cats every day, your incessantly screaming children, your seven different rolled-up menus for some stupid-ass Mexican/pizza place rubber-banded to my door knob. Every. Single. Day. I hate you with your crumpled Cheetos bags in my yard, your “Do Your Ears Hang Low?” ice cream trucks, your small, poorly-behaved dogs, and your residents sitting on their porches across the street shouting: “Fuck you, NIGGA! I’m GANGSTA!” until 2 AM each morning. No, really: fuck YOU. You are neither a nigga, nor are you gangsta, so shut the FUCK up. I hate you.