Open Letter Vol. 2

Dear Public Transport Services:

It has come to my attention that I am at the mercy of your diabolically shitty service. Actually, this realization has been pretty goddamn apparent since I first capitulated and rode with you fuckers back in the Fall of 1990. I remember how the Cult, Nirvana and Alice and Chains were big back then. I also remember how fucking late you assmunches were every single goddamn morning. You know, I think I am a pretty patient motherfucker myself. I can put up with the endless parade of cast-offs, criminally insane and mentally incapacitated who occasionally threaten to kill me. Or simply masturbate in front of me. Or both. At the back of the bus. I can endure the rickety, shrieky battalion of elderly people who insist that the stop is really THERE and not HERE, because it was THERE twenty-odd years ago, thereby concurrently robbing me of twenty-odd years of my life. Ah, yes. My dear sweet PTS. How I long to connect with you again, like we did in the good old days. The endless nerve-shattering minutes of needless delay. The borderline hostile phone service that routinely misdirects me. Without fail, of course. The emotionally-crippling moments at the ticket booth, all because of a fucking bandana or the fact that I cannot declare that I am a full-time student. Oh, waitafuckinminnit! I still go through this high-speed byzantine rollercoaster ride into madness with you EVERY! FUCKING! DAY! Thank you for your ceaseless and tireless effort in thwarting my day, one fucking way or another.

Hugs,

The World's Motherfuckingly Happiest Commuter