Oh mobile stinklizard, oh wheeled time-bandit.
The tiny Lenin that lives in my sternum raises his ineffectual communist fists to the sky and screams a shrill wail of triumph at the thought of the bus. This communal car helping the masses distribute to their places of labour, owned by no-one but the government, obeying the rules only of its own bloated sense of purpose.
Much like the classic film, The Hunt for the Red October, buses are like submarines filled with communist intention trying to blend in with a pod of whales which represent democratic governmental structure. And much like that analogy, while the intent was pure, the result just didn’t quite work. Submarines.
LACK OF STARS:
Who can forget the penultimate scene of ‘Hunt for the Red October’? With Sean Connery and his beard bristling with barely contained fury, bodily lifting the submarine over the Suez Canal, screaming ‘SEE YOU… IN HELL!’
|Moses? Put that submarine down, right now.
Unfortunately buses don’t have a Sean Connery to lift them from the muck of their own ineptitude, and instead these murmuring, half-broken machines bumble around our streets with all the ineptitude of a Rob Schneider with ten broken fingers trying to call his own mother on a tiny smartphone. And then acting.
Trying to make sense of a buses timetable is about as rewarding as watching Doctor Who with two harpoons jutting out of your eyes and then trying to logically analyse the linearity of plotlines. Sometimes in order to swallow the rising apoplexy, I imagine that each bus must skirt the edge of a black hole, warping space and time and endangering everybody on board. It only helps a little bit.
And now that it’s winter (again? I know, right?), buses become nomadic saunas designed to circulate a fine mist of body stench directly into your lungs. Trickles of black water curl sluggishly around your hefty manbag and the interior temperature is so uncomfortably warm that you fall asleep and drool on a hirsute young man from Sydney Uni.