Late this morning, after waiting far too long on Mission and 8th Streets, a crowded 14 finally arrived. When attempting to board this jam-packed asylum on wheels, the driver screamed at the top of his lungs,
“BACK DOOR!!! BACK DOOR!!! BACK DOOR!!!”
Not one to pay my fare needlessly, I make my way to the back door, but not without telling the driver, in a tone of sweetness and light, that he really doesn’t have to yell at us. Because really, he doesn’t. As soon as the bus is lumbering again down Mission Street, over the speaker he says, “I wasn’t yelling, that’s how I talk. That’s how a man is supposed to talk.”
Mmmmmmmanly!
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That’s hilarious! Must be in Chapter One of the Manly Man Handbook.
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So that’s why I don’t feel like a man. Why I don’t have chicks hanging all over me, lookin’ at my sugalump. I will start my yelling regimen as soon as I learn to stop using girly words like regimen.
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Any excuse to yell, I suppose.
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