That's Amore?

"When the moon hits your eye, like a big pizza pie, that's amore!"  Or so it would seem, according to recording legend, Dean Martin.  He goes on crooning about other factors that equate to true love, but he never elaborates on whether it was a professionally-made pizza or a homemade one, crafted by one's mother.  Upon further speculation, I don't know which would be more beneficial to be clobbered in the face with... 🤔  That, however, is not what this blog will be about.  Instead, we're going to meander down the twisted rabbit hole which is the ongoing debate of what is better:  Pizza that is delivered VS a pizza made at home, from scratch.

Every morning I tune in to 96.3 Cruz-FM.  I love listening to the morning show personalities, Clayton Kroeker and Stacie Cooper.  Their banter is second to none.  If you were to look at me when I'm listening to the show, you'll always see a big smile on my face, if I'm not laughing out loud.  They're a great pair and I hope they're on the air forever.  I also, like them because despite my constant texting into the show to relate to whatever the subject is that day, they're always kind and receptive, except that one time...  Just kidding. 😏

As per the usual, I was listening to the show and, admittedly I don't know how they got onto the subject, but nevertheless, they did, and the subject was PIZZA.  Stacie swears that homemade pizza is far better than delivery.  I can't say for certain that this actually happened, but I swear that I heard half the city exclaim in unison, "WHAT?!?"  If that never actually occurred, then Clayton spoke for all of us when he abruptly responded with "WHAT?!?" 😕  They immediately went into a mock trial where each participant defended their claim and I have to give the victory to Clayton, however, I do see some of Stacie's point.

Iron Chef Bobby Flay schleps pizza.

Stacie has been watching cooking shows and loves watching pizza being prepared at home, from scratch, rather than people always ordering in.  I understand the appeal of these shows, as I also watch them, from time-to-time.  The sound of whirring mixers or sizzling frying pans is a guilty pleasure of mine, which I presume is the case for many people.  It's very rarely, however, that I've ever attempted to replicate anything I've seen on TV.  However, listening to the premise of creating one's own pizza pie at home, is somewhat appealing, however, I always factor in the cost, mess and clean-up versus the reward.

There are billboards all over town, advertising one of the local pizzerias.  They boast this "incredible" deal of two large pizzas (12"), a 2L soda pop, a pound of ribs and a half dozen 2-bite brownies for an astounding price of just $68.99.  Yep!!  With tax, that food is well over seventy bucks.  Suddenly, making pizza at home sounds pretty f**king good.  I know your bank account would thank you.

Cheaper to make, perhaps.  Until you get to the grocer only to discover all the ingredients you desire, also cost an arm and a leg.  Practically need to get a second mortgage on the house just to pay the grocery bill.  Suddenly delivery sounds pretty damned good.  Plus, no mess.  Just a greasy pizza box that gets tossed into the recycling bin.  Your bank account may not like too much, but Mother Earth does.

Just look at this monstrosity from a local eatery.  Over an inch of meat and goodness.  May cost the price of your left arm, but there's no way, even on my best day ever, that I'd ever be able to make a pizza like this.

So which is better?  Difficult to say.  Personally, I have to go with the masses and choose delivery over homemade pizza.  As for which is better to get struck in the face with, I'd go with the homemade pie. 🍕

Dean Martin never specified which type of pie struck him in the eye to learn of the love directed at him, but maybe.  Just maybe.  It was a homemade pie, that fell apart immediately as it left the tosser's hand and only a little tomato sauce got in his eye.  That's amore?  A mother's love, perhaps?  I dunno.  That's a secret that went to the grave of the award-winning singer.

Iraqi Balboa

This past week at work, we began our new work pieces.  Every few months, representatives of the union and transit give new options for transit workers to change the routes of what they were doing to do something new.  Many retain the routes that they were doing previous, some even have been doing the same route for years, while others change shit up every once in awhile to keep things fresh and new.  If it were up to me, I would have continued doing the work I'd been doing since the start of the New Year, but fate would have other plans.  While my work was still there in the morning, by the time it was my turn for sign up, it was gone.  I was forced into something new and while I don't very much enjoy my weekday schedule, my Saturdays are da bomb!  It's only for two months and maybe, on my next sign up, I'll get back to what I was doing before, but if not, hopefully, I can keep this Saturday piece.  It's freakin' awesome, if you didn't already know.

So the latter piece of my Saturday, involves driving routes 44 and 45, which all return downtown as the Number 4.  I did a similar run last year, between October and the end of December, only this time, it's not as hectic and I'm not running an Artic (articulating bus) on the route.

On my second run downtown, returning as the Number 4 bus, I arrived at a stop along College Drive.  Mostly because there was a crowd waiting, but in part because this little Muslim boy stuck his arm out, as if he'd just told the crowd to "Hold on! I've got this!"

He was a very mature little boy of what appeared to be less than 5 years old.  He stepped aboard the bus, arms clasped behind his little body, venturing inward, gesturing like he was inspecting the troops.  As if he were a child-version of General Patton. His parent followed, his proud father with a gigantic smile stretched across his face, his mother behind him, with only a Mona Lisa smile.  They were followed by a cavalcade of people.

One of the side-facing seats were up, because a person with a stroller had been in that spot, earlier.  The young Muslim family sat next to the open spot.  Then no sooner had I continued on the route, that I heard the stop request bell go off.  Not once, like you'd expect, but multiples, like you'd hear from a pinball machine. BING! BING! BING!  BING! BING! BING!  This shit just aggravates me, because it's usually an immature person trying to be funny.

I once had a guy on the bus, who rang the bell for every stop, thinking he was being hilarious.  I told him to stop and he'd deny that he'd rung the bell.  "Sir!" I said sternly, "You're the ONLY person on the bus, besides me!"  The dirty young fella looked around and realized that he couldn't hide his guilt."  He continued to pull the cord, until I booted him off the bus.

This situation was different.  It wasn't an immature delinquent trying to be a funny man.  It was the young Muslim child who'd turned the Handicapped alert bell into his own private boxing gym.  The kid had mad skills, for being so young.  He looked like Rocky Balboa going to town on a side of beef.  BING! BING! BING!

I kindly requested that the bell not be pressed unless they were prepared to exit the bus.  The boy's father, his previous huge smile now dissippating turning into a look of embarrassment.  He pulled his son away, while the child's mother lowered to seat to discourage further interaction.

After a couple more stops, I heard that ever-so-familiar BING! BING! BING! BING!  I looked into the rear viewing mirror and saw that the determined young fella was now laying on his back, underneath the now lowered bench seat, hammering on that handi-button, while his panicked parents struggled to pull the stubborn kid out from beneath.

Once we'd arrived downtown, the kid, once more with hands clasped behind his tiny back, strode off the bus, tossing me a glance of approval.

Asinine-one-one

 

Hmm.  How do I say this without sounding like a pervert or idiot?  I have an awesome and talented ass.

"Wait!  What did you say, Jeff?" you're asking yourselves, "A talented.... Ass?"

I was driving for work, today, as I do everyday, listening to the radio through a bluetooth speaker, when suddenly, out of the blue, an alarm cuts in, interrupting the radio broadcast.  I'm instantly annoyed, believing that it's the Emergency Alert chiming in to do a test as it often does at the most inopportune times.  Usually whilst I'm watching television, but in this case it was in the middle of a U2 song.  I pulled over to pick up another passenger, taking the opportunity to check my phone and delete this bullshit emergency tone, when I discovered that my ass had mistakenly butt-dialed 911.

I often carry my phone in my back pocket, always without issues, but today, somehow, my ass managed to unlock my phone, swipe it to get to the main screen, pressed the phone calling option, then dial 9, followed by two 1's.  How this was possible, I haven't got the foggiest of ideas.  Only that it happened.  Not once, but a second time, when I was trying to delete all the calls that my ass was making.

Now when I claim that my ass made the phone call to the Emergency 9-1-1, it wasn't the whole ass, but my left cheek to be specific.  How this was possible, it being necessary to press and swipe multiple times, I don't f**king know.  It baffles me almost as much as it pissed me off.  For the remainder of my day, I kept thinking that emergency vehicles were going to track my phone, but alas, the one thing to go right, this afternoon, was no intervention by police or fire.

High Five

I like to listen to the radio when I'm driving at work.  It's Cruz in the AM, because I love hearing the comedic banter between the hosts Clayton Kroeker and Stacie Cooper.  In the afternoons I sometimes stay with Cruz, but more times than not, lately anyway, I've been listening to either Rock 102, which is local or else 104 The Wolf out of Regina.  Regina doesn't have much going for it, other than home to the Saskatchewan Roughriders, a Carl's Jr restaurant and the radio station 104.1 FM - The Wolf.  Today happened to be one of those days where music from the Queen City's station filled the air inside Bus #1812.

Near the end of my shift, the announcer came on with a funny story out of the United States.  When he began telling the short tale, I began to chuckle, believing the outcome to result with 9-1-1 being called, but sadly that funny finish would never come to fruition, but the story remained amusing all the same.

It seems that there was a little girl who had awoken early from a nap, got out of bed and went searching for her mother.  Taking advantage of their young daughter being asleep, mommy and daddy squirrelled off to their bedroom for some sexy time. 

Unbeknownst to them, amid their sensuality, their daughter was wide awake and searching the house for them.  It wasn't until she overheard a commotion erupting from her parents room, when she went to investigate.  Luckily, for both she and her parents, the door was locked, preventing the child from witnessing what was actually happening behind the door.  Sound, on the other hand, was not prohibited from passing through the locked entryway.

The horror that rushed through the mind of the small toddler was overwhelming.  Sounds of bloody murder came erupting from the inner sanctum of the parents' sleeping chamber.  Not before too long, the child began crying.  Sobbing and wailing, all the while pounding on the door, begging for her mother to be safe.  Screaming for help.  

Mom and dad, alarmed at the sound of their baby is such distress brought them rushing to the door to see what was the matter.

Mother with her child, now nestled in her arms, tried her best to calm the distraught infant, softly whispering apologies and affirmations that mommy and daddy were just playing.  That daddy wasn't trying to hurt mommy.

At the end of the story, the radio announcer simply stated, "I don't know what dad was doing, but good for you, Buddy.  High Five!!" ✋

Brown Eye Sees Red

Although it may sound like what I'm about to declare is cynical, I assure you that this is not the case.  Simply put, throughout my life I've observed many people and things, resulting in my having certain attitudes and beliefs.  Many, or more likely, most people will disagree and this is where the label of Cynic would be bestowed upon me.

I don't believe in God, Jesus or Heaven and Hell.  The likelihood that once upon a time there was a dude named Jesus, is possible.  Hell, you could go down any street in the greater Los Angeles area, call out that name and a half dozen fellas of Latin decent will respond, so the likelihood of one existing in the "biblical" age, is possible.  He probably wouldn't have been found at a Home Depot....  Although, Jesus WAS a carpenter, wasn't he? 🤔  Hmm.  Subject for another day.

I also do not believe in coincidences, accidents or luck.  Not good luck, anyway.  I am somewhat superstitious.  Not to the point that I believe Friday the 13th to be cursed, nor do I think it unfortunate if a black cat crosses my path.  However, I do think that if I break a mirror I will receive seven years of bad luck, although with a good lawyer, you might get that reduced to three years with good behaviour. 😄 [Insert comedic rimshot here 🥁].  I think Wednesdays tend to be the worst day of the week for me, but have improved over the course of the last year, so perhaps I can lay that one to rest.  And red underwear promotes diarrhea.

"WAIT!! What was that last one?" you all are probably saying to yourselves. "Red underwear does what now?" 

I've discovered through trial and error that consistently, whenever I leave the house wearing red underwear, I usually will have an accident or what is called in the armed forces as a near miss.  Today I had a near miss and I will tell you all about it.

It was dark and I was still half asleep when I dressed myself for work, this morning, so I never noticed what colour of undies I was stepping into.  I got to work and everything went as planned.  I arrived downtown late and missed the shuttle back to the garage, so I waited.  When I finally got back to the Operations Center where we keep the buses, I had to go inside to fill out the sheet for overtime.  It was when I was returning to my vehicle to come home when I felt a little pfft.  A little fart snuck out like a teen sneaking out her bedroom window to see the bad boy her parent disapprove of.  Only the aftermath of this sneaky little ripper felt... off.  I stopped dead in my tracks, standing in the middle of the parking lot looking perplexed.  It wasn't until I sat down in my vehicle before I realized what had actually happened.  If the wetness I felt in my undercarriage wasn't enough to convince me, the stench certainly did.  Woof!! 😬

What's done was done.  No getting around that.  I had planned on stopping off at the grocer on the way home and decided to follow through with that plan rather than racing home.  I figured I could salvage my situation in the public restroom before going home.

Have you ever had to "go" really bad and as soon as you arrived at home, it's like your body believes it's okay to open the flood gates before you get to the restroom?  That never happened to me, but like I said, today's debacle was a near miss.

The moment I parked my truck and began my trek into the store, the same thing occurred.  My body thought it was time to unleash the Hounds of Hell at which moment, I tightly clenched my cheeks and I'm not talking about the rosy red ones on my face.  Now I had to quickly make my way inside the store, walking only from the knees down and very little movement everywhere else.  It was all eyes straight forward, avoid eye-contact with everyone and steer straight into the bathroom.  You avoid eye-contact because at moments like these, everyone becomes psychic and they suddenly know you're in peril and will either intervene, forcing the matter to be even more intense.  Or they'll stand back and stare with judging eyes.  Either way, I don't wish to engage.

Before the door was completely open, I saw a sign stating the toilet was out of order.  "Oh shit!!" I said aloud, but then noticed there were two stalls.  A reprieve!!  After removing my heavy coat and gloves is when I discovered the aftermath AND that I was wearing red underwear. 

I ate a salad on the weekend.  Within a few hours, the lettuce and everything had vacated my body and it wasn't pleasant.  At the time, I believed that it was because I may have put too much dressing on the salad.  I'd shaken the bottle so instead of thick ranch dressing oozing out of the bottle, it was a liquified ranch that came rushing out of the bottle.  So last night, when I finished off the pack of salad, I used much less dressing, even adding croutons and cheese to the blend.  So when I discovered the tragedy that had occurred in my skivvies, I was bewildered.

Later in the day, I had to consult Google as to whether salads cause diarrhea and guess what?  I was not the first person to pose this query to the search engine, nor am I the lone wolf affected by this.  Apparently, because salads are high in fibre, it promotes bowel movements and because lettuce has high water content, the afore mentioned bowel movements are often liquified.

🤨 The shit you learn...  Pardon the pun.

I finished out my tasks, including filling up with fuel.  The nastiness was behind me (Again, pardon the pun.)  I had makeshift protection in my pants in the form of folded T.P., which got me thinking about a product to pitch to the folks on Shark Tank.  A protection pad for men.  Similar to those pads that the ladies use, only these would be designed to guard against sharting.  It happens way too often.  Hell, I remember missing my best friend's son's baptism because I sharted on the way to the church.  That was not a near miss.  The attack that day struck with heavy vengeance.  Today's nastiness was mainly water, I believe, but this is bordering on T.M.I..

I had initially called them Shart Pads, but quickly changed the name to Shartnado Pads. [Patent Pending 😉] It's just a catchier name.  

Confession

We all have secrets.  Little lies that we tell each other and even convincing ourselves that they don't exist all in an effort to protect ourselves from judgment.  Secrets that hide behind that fake smile that we show to the world, all the while, our inner thoughts are plaguing us with guilt and fear.  I'm no different and if you're reading this, chances are, you deal with these thoughts every day.  "What if they find out?" you think, "What will they think?  Will they still like me?" Etcetera, etcetera, etcetera.  It's only through confessing that some of the weight can be lifted off our conscience.

I've been racking my brain for a while over the decision whether or not to come clean to my friends and family.  I have laboured intensely for months with this inner turmoil and only now have decided that I should step forward and speak my truth.  Be who I am and own my decisions.  If people choose to continue being my friend or family members wish to disown me over my standing up and declaring my truth, then so be it.  I've been alone before and have come out the other side and I truly believe that, deep down, I'm still a good and decent person.  Like me or not, please respect my decision.

So here it goes:  As much as I love the ROCKY movies (with exception of Rocky V), I must confess to you all now...  I hate the song, "Eye of the Tiger"!!  There!  I've said it and as soon as I press the "publish" icon in the top right-hand corner of this page, the entire world or, at least, the one or two people who may take the time to read this drivel, will know my truth.  Either you, the reader, will accept me as an "Eye of the Tiger" hater or you won't.  I can't change your mind.  You'll have to come to that decision on your own.

   

Even though, at this precise moment, my secret is still just a secret, with the potential to remain hidden with the touch of the delete button, but I already feel a hundred times better about my life, having simply wrote it out.  This blog, if for no other reason, is therapeutic in some ways. In fact, so much weight has been lifted from my being, that it's giving me the confidence to admit some other transgressions.

I love the Top Gun movies.  Tom Cruise is probably my favourite actor, overall.  I've commented in the past that I like that, no matter how bat-shit crazy Cruise might get in his personal life (ie. The Oprah Show incident), I completely believe him in every role that he takes on.  His performances are spectacular and barring anything completely f*cked up, he'll always be my favourite actor.  That being said, I f*cking hate the song "Danger Zone" by Kenny Loggins.  Loggins' voice sounds like two cats fighting.  I can barely struggle through it.  I think the only way that I am able to listen to it is my equal love of the cartoon, ARCHER, whose title character, absolutely adores Loggins and his 1986 hit.  When the song hits the airwaves, I think of Archer and it makes me smile.

There's a whole host of music that I dislike greatly.  Anything from RUSH or Zeppelin, although the latter is beginning to seep through my tough outer skin and I'm starting to like some of it.  However, my thoughts on The Beatles being the most overrated band in history, continues to be my belief and there are those who will agree with me, though they do not possess the courage to stand up and declare this fact, for all to witness.

Another confession that isn't really a confession, because I've openly declared my hatred of it, is the ELEANOR Mustang from the 2000 film, "Gone in 60 Seconds", starring Nicholas Cage.  I believe I liked it at the time, when the movie was released into theaters, but unfortunately, in the decades since its release, automotive customizers have flooded the market with clones.  Clones are, obviously, homages to the original movie car.  Some of these clones have garnered hundreds of thousands of dollars at auction.  There are so many clones out there that the widow of the original cars designer, Denise Halicki, has launched many lawsuits throughout the years, against people who built "unauthorized" Eleanor clones, including the late Carroll Shelby, in 2008.

The car is a stunning piece of work.  However, there are so many out in the world, that I've grown tired of seeing the damned things.  I like chocolate cake, but if I ate it everyday, I'd barf every time I saw a slice on a plate.

So there you have it folks.  I hate the songs "Eye of the Tiger" and "Danger Zone", two pieces of music that exist in the zeitgeist of human history.  Two songs that possess the default setting of everyone (must) love it, but no.  This is not the case.  Not with me.  I have to go against the grain on this one, as I do on many subjects.  I gotta be me.  I have to be individual, apart from the masses.  I must be that square peg that forces itself into the round hole.  I am the proverbial aardvark!

Out of the Black

I remember those old TV shows where someone would be driving home after an evening out with friends, but they'd never arrive at their destination.  Something nefarious was set in motion from the moment they sat behind the wheel, for there was a dark figure hiding in the backseat, who would accost them and eventually do horrible, terrible things to them.  As a young boy, I never understood how this was even possible.  "How did they not see someone hiding in the rear of their car, just inches from where they'd be seated?  Admittedly, these days, I will get into my truck, never peering into the backseat compartment.  The space back there, mind you, can be cramped and anyone of significant size would find it difficult to hide there.  However, I don't always drive my own vehicle and one such event occurred two nights ago and it's affected me in so many ways.

As a transit operator, my view of what is behind me is limited.  Many times, when I thought I was alone and began singing to a favourite song playing on the radio, I am surprised by the 'DING' of the stop request.  With all the security features that protect us drivers, sometimes you can't always see what or whom is seated directly behind you.  This is a huge problem for me as I've had many nightmares of questionable people stabbing me from behind.  It's a level of anxiety that I deal with on a daily basis.  So at the end of my shift, usually when I'm about to return the the garage, I'll pull over to the side of the road, secure my bus and walk the length of the bus, checking for lost articles or people left onboard.  The bus is always empty and I can shut off all the interior lights and be on my way.

Tuesdays are especially problematic for me.  I run an afternoon shift of the 40s.  Routes, 43, 45, 44 and 4.  The forties head out to Evergreen, Arbor Creek and Willow Grove and I do it all on a 60 foot articulating bus.  The size of this vessel can be a little overwhelming when you consider it's size, but in actuality, it's pretty easy to maneuver.  However, there isn't enough time to complete the routes in a timely manner and I often find myself 45 minutes to an hour behind, usually by no fault of my own.  First time was because I didn't have a working transit master (GPS) and I was unfamiliar with the routes.  Working off the book, it becomes increasingly difficult to read as the night grows darker and the interior driver light, overhead, is a freakin' joke.  The second time I drove the route, there was a car accident that blocked one of the two lanes heading into Sutherland and both occupants of the cars abandoned their vehicles, thus backing up traffic for hours. The last time, two days ago, the brainiacs with the City, chose to close College Drive, again, backing up traffic for nearly an hour.  It took me, in my elongated bus nearly an hour to travel three blocks and cross the College Drive bridge.  This put me behind almost an hour, so it was dark by the time I was rounding out my last loop, Route 44 (Willow Grove).  By this time, the transit master has gone blank because it thinks that I've completed my routes and it's gone to sleep, rendering me lost to figure out the route on my own.

As I approached one of my final stops before heading for downtown, I was stopped by a fellow operator who knows that I shouldn't be out so late, especially with the articulating bus.  This bus is mainly used for peak times when there's the potential for the most riders.  By this time I only had a handful of riders.  Krista, the fellow operator, boarded my bus and instructed all my riders to transfer to her bus, explaining that (I) was finished for the day and that she'd deliver them the rest of the way.  Krista walked to the articulating part of the bus, checking for everyone and urging them to transfer to the other bus.  I was double-parked, blocking the traffic behind me and neglected to do my own walk-through, believing that Krista had, indeed, cleared everyone for me.  I thanked her, shut off all my lights and continued on my way.

If you've read this far in my tale, I think you may know what is coming. 

Please bear with me.

I turned up my radio and began my arduous trek back to the garage, which is located outside the city on the west side.  Because there's a glare from the interior lights that reflects off the front glass, I like to shut off all the lights to allow me to see the road more clearly and when you're dealing with black ice as the temperatures drop to below freezing at night, especially driving a sixty-foot articulating bus which is notorious for jackknifing on frozen surfaces, I'll take all the helpful advantages that I can.

I was traveling south on Circle Drive at the posted speed of 90km/h, being mindful of the glistening ice crystals reflecting off the asphalt, in a pitch black bus when out of nowhere... A hand grabs my shoulder from behind.  My heart rate jumped from normal to a million in less than a second and I screamed at the top of my lungs and I swear that if I wasn't wearing my seatbelt, I would have exploded and skyrocketed out the top of the bus.  I began screaming at this person, telling them that they scared the shit out of me and asking WHY she didn't get off when she was instructed to?  She never answered she was almost as startled as I was and stepped back, disappearing once again into the darkness that shrouded the interior of the bus.  Frankly, it's a miracle that I maintained control of the bus on this icy surface.  I pulled onto the 8th Street exit and continued to berate this poor frightened woman.  I followed my tirade, immediately, with apologies for my reaction, again scolding her for grabbing me rather than speaking up and for not coming forward when the lights were first shut off, which was probably about ten minutes before this time.  I got her squared away at another stop that would take her the rest of her way to the downtown terminal, then continued on my way, taking an alternate route back to the garage, all the while, grasping at my chest.

Can a person literally be scared to death, I pondered as I struggled to calm myself.  I managed to get myself back to the garage, a choice that I continue to question to this moment, because what occurred next is still bothering me to this juncture.

When I came into the supervisors window, I saw the acting supervisor who asked if I was alright.  I was white as a ghost, had difficulty catching my breath and I was clutching my chest.  It was decided at that point that I should take a seat and 911 was called. 

The EMTs arrived within about 20 minutes and my heart rate had not slowed.  They hooked me with more than a dozen sensors and tested my heart, to make sure I wasn't having a heart attack.  Thankfully, I was not.  They urged me that I should go to the hospital for further testing and in retrospect, I wish I had taken them up on their offer as in the two days since this incident, I've had an uncomfortable pressure in my chest, which increases with fatigue.  I joked to a co-worker, that I believe I may have "blown a gasket".  I'm going to call my personal physician today for a follow up.  Last thing I need on my plate, now, is a fucking heart condition.

Tuesday night, all I wanted to do was go home, hug my cat and be thankful that I was still alive.

Apparently this woman, who was dressed all in black, was seated at the very back of the bus, out of the view of both myself and Krista, the other operator who'd vacated my bus.  The woman, I believe, didn't speak very good English and may not have understood the words that Krista was speaking, but to sit in the back of this bus, in total blackness, not knowing where she was going or what was happening, is still inexcusable, no matter what country she was born in.  Then to just grab someone, in absolute silence, was just evil.  She may not have intended her actions to be considered as such, but it was a terrible thing to do to anyone.

Ninety-nine point nine times, I check and clear my bus before returning to the garage.  The one fucking time I don't, this happens and it's affected me mentally and physically.  It's a lesson that I will not forget and like most life lessons, it's one that I've learned the hard way.