Tuesday, April 29, 2008

Anatomy of a Bad Commute, Part II

Sometimes the universe just opens up on you for a 24-hour period.

This morning on my way to work, the bus I was riding was hit by a car.

The accident was completely the other driver's fault -- a case of the other driver refusing to slow down when coming out of the merge lane. As a result, the bus neatly severed one of the car's outside mirrors, and everything came to a halt.

The other driver -- an older woman with an air of entitled indignation and a handicapped license plate on her luxury sedan -- insisted on calling the police and waiting for them to arrive.

It was another of those "everyone off" moments, only this time we were in the middle of Lake Shore Drive.

As everyone else milled about the scene, she sat in her car, avoiding the wrath of a hundred angry public transportation passengers wondering how they were going to get to work.

And I'm ashamed to say this, but I walked right up to her car and gave her the finger.

It took three buses to pick up all of us, and our accommodations were cozy to say the least. I ended up standing right next to the new driver, who was prompted by another, especially chatty, refugee to regale us with CTA gossip.

He claimed their regular budget crises are all the result of CTA President Ron Humberman wasting tax dollars on his high-powered friends. He called the organization Chicago's political dumping ground, and claimed that CTA actually stands for "cover thy ass."

I am happy to report that my trip home was entirely uneventful.


Mrs. Clyde Beavers said...

I think it is OK that you flipped that lady the bird. In addition, you should have jumped into her Caddie and demanded a ride to work!

John Hornor Jacobs said...

Glad you're not hurt.

Wow. Throwing the bird, huh? Don't let this tough guy thing go to your head.

Lemme axe you a question. Did you throw her the seventies bird (one finger jutting up from a clenched fist) or the eighties bird (one finger between artfully curled digits)?

I'm a practitioner of the seventies bird. One gnarly finger pointing skyward from a fist of rage has more effect than the delicate artifice of the eighties bird.

You're a child of the eighties. You remember My Bodyguard, with Matt Dillon as the baddie? When the goofy kid flips him off at the end? Thats a seventies bird.