DONALD TRUMP: NACHO BEST BET FOR PRESIDENT
Dear driver of bus #9 south,
My sincerest thanks, cool-headed asshole, for letting me down today, crumbling to the asphalt from heat exhaustion. The time, approximately 11:15 am. The victim, me.
I would like to take the moment now to bow my head in solemn silence– when I’m done typing this up, hold the fuck on– and bask in the wonders of your most audacious glory and profound disrespect for pedestrians and fellow bus people everywhere. I find it supercalifragilisticexpialidocious to know that you think it’s okay to leave the bus terminal 8 minutes early, in scorching-hot, and incredibly humid 33-degree weather (celsius, my American friends), while your ass sits cold and refreshed in front of a glass window, mocking the pain of all those hot-blooded people beyond it, and racing ahead of a chicken-legged female cheetah-sprinting an incredible 14 mph to reach you, nine fucking minutes before takeoff.
To be impartial, I don’t precisely know what might have happened had you waited those eight minutes or– heaven forbid– those thirty seconds. Maybe a giant canine-teethed worm that got away from the Men in Black was right behind you and happened to zip past me. I don’t know, okay? My eyesight isn’t all that, these eyes are failing me.
But they saw you, #9 south bus driver, demon from the depths of hell, you on your flight from the path of righteousness and sensible haircuts, you.
I’m not even going to bother filing a formal and seconds-later forgotten complaint with your superiors. You’ll mess with the wrong gangster someday.
(Watch, I’m just waiting for some middle-classed child to tell me how one of their parents is a bus driver, and it’s a real pickle, and there are reasons why blah, blah, blah, blah, blah. You weren’t there.)