Saturday, August 16, 2014


The other day I was chilling on the 200

(that's what I've chosen to call the time we spend waiting at 21st South each morning)

when an individual sitting in the seat behind me was so insulted by what was going on that she got up from her seat and asked me:

"Does the driver know the speed limit on this road is 35?"

(Please excuse me for a moment while I tap into the collective hive mind of all UTA bus drivers.)

"I'm sure she does."

"Then why are we going TEN MILES AN HOUR?"

(First of all, we're probably going quite a bit faster than ten miles per hour when we're going--ten miles per hour feels excruciatingly slow on a bus, and I have watched the speedometer on a '13 bus a couple of times, which is a big number on a display instead of a dial; the bus is going 10 miles an hour before everyone on the bus is even aware that it's moving.  I can understand your desire to exaggerate the situation to lend credence to your point, but your perceptions as stated are, unfortunately, inaccurate.  Second, have you not noticed that we are ON A BUS?  The bus had to stop to pick you up; it had to stop to pick me up; it has to stop to pick up all these other nice people.  Move to 27th West if you want to ride a bus that doesn't stop except for you.)

"I don't know."

I said the last part with enough bile, I think, to convince her that it would be a good idea not to ask me any further asinine questions.  Which is much better than what would have happened had I actually unleashed my internal monologue on her.

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