Monday, August 06, 2007


I was a on a trip on a Greyhound bus bound from New York to L.A. when we made a stop on the way to pass gas and get gas and rest ass from this bumpy ride that shook up our inside and bruised our outside backside hide nationwide.

The driver, a conniver, got a hot meal free, a steak, spuds and suds of Buds, his favorite brand, and an extra can for the road while he rode in a way that showed he didn't shive a git for his human load.

Well, we rolled on from dawn to dawn and yawn to yawn through jerkwater towns hotter than a Harry Potter tale or the tail of a frail with sex for sale for a male to rate on a scale of one to ten for a guy on a high who hadn't had it as rapid as an Easter rabbit, a horny hare with energy and time to spare.

How this script slipped from an account of a trip coast to coast to a roll in the sack with a beast in heat is hard to fathom but the fact of the act is that most boast they frequently have 'em. But enough about lust, it's back to the bus, I trust you can't wait to know what happens next.

A couple flats, an almost wreck, and what the heck, a peck of trouble with a cop who hollered "Stop!" but the brakes wouldn't work so the driver jerk just drove away with a "Have a nice day!" A summons comin' in the mail. Our driver's in the county jail.

So, if you gotta know, pay your fare and join us somewhere between here and there. If you can bear the fumes, the single restroom and the doom that looms when the bus goes boom and falls over a cliff, what's the diff!.

If the driver remembers to shift to low to slow the descent on a hill going down out of town we just weren't meant to have an eventful event and we'll get to L A. OK. But going back the driver might have a snack attack, get off the track, take a dive on the drive and the Greyhound bound to NYC might end the trip with a dip in the sea. We'll see, Amigo, Si! Si! Si!


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