Currently I'm en route to Philadelphia (the fakest city in America) by way of the Bolt Bus. Ah, yes... The Bolt Bus, Acela of the poverty elite. Sometimes I like to pretend that the Bolt is exclusive to the fiscally ignorant, like myself, who exude fabulosity despite the limitations of their minimum wage salaries. Luxurious leather seating, free wireless internet, why wouldn't you think you were traveling like a Kennedy? Oh... I remember... because sooner or later you'll come face-to-face with a real live animal/human crossbread who single handedly destroys any glimmer you had of a peaceful journey.
On this particular trip, these mongoloids I'm referencing are occupying the Bolt's last rows, as if it were a giant cheese bus and they were the "cool kids." While I'd like to remind the two cackaling hyenas that they were probably never cool, I'm too busy ripping fuzz out of my sweatshirt and sticking it up my nose. Why, you ask? Because these morons decided it would be funny to drop a stink bomb. I know what you're thinking and I can assure you, NO... It was not just a nasty poop and some after-gas. The scent sent me right back to my elementary school cafeteria the day I was pantsed and all of the fifth and sixth grade bore witness to the physical evidence of puberty. That day some juvenial half breeds launched a couple, making it the perfect segway to the involuntary unveiling of my no-nos. All the more reason why I am NOT amused... fuckers.
A similar sensation occurred last night when I sat down to enjoy the single most magical night of television of the year... The finale of So You Think You Can Dance. Only the best show on broadcast TV (notice how I've discounted cable as Jerz clearly surpasses all), this season has been by far the best in terms of talent, choreography, and peronalities. So of course I was expecting utter perfection televised.... That is until I heard it...
If stink bombs had a voice it would be the voice of Mary Murphy. Hearing her shrill verbiage sent me screaming back to the days when I was afraid to ride trains in fear that one would end up being the hot tamale train. Whosever idea it was to invite her back for the finale deserves that little boy to repeat his tap dance routine on his or her brain. (Ah--Wasn't he the CUTEST?!?!).
Despite my momentary lack of hearing, the show WAS amazeballs. All the best performances were showcased (meaning that 99% of the numbers were choreographed by either Travis or NappyTabs). It's no surprise that no Mandy Moore dances made the cut... You know... After she decided her strategy this season would be "let's see how lame can I get." Let's just hope that the verbal lashing she received on Wednesday will ensure that the audience will never have to sit through a number about "sneakers meeting up to boogie" again.
At the end of the day it was all good in the hood. My girl Lauren took home the title, and the dough, AND the Gatorade endorsement deal. She then proceeded to dump a bottle of my faveo lemon lime on top of her head which, for me, really displayed what it means to be a champion.
Well... It appears that this bus is taking a short cut to nowhere. If I don't make it out alive or if I linger perpetually of rotten eggs, I guess I'll see ya never.
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