145 On The Bus
Nice bus. Modern. Runs on “clean natural gas.” Directly in front is a sanitation truck owned by the same municipality,
Uncle Hog is the bus driver. He’s about 5’5” x 5’5”, bearded, shorts, tee shirt and is listening to Jesus-FM. That means the rest of us are, too.
The Mormon Tabernacle Choir takes a break after “Rejoice, Rejoice!” We get traffic and weather together. The road to hell is moderate to heavy and moving freely in both directions. The forecast is forecast calls for rain on earth. They used to give the weather only when it was “good.” Now, they’re moving into the new century by giving actual weather forecasts. Rain on earth, hot and humid on the
Commercial for “My Father’s Place,” which used to be a saloon on
Back to music. A rousing bluegrass selection from the Nickel Mountain Boys, “Schoolhouse Breakdown” featuring Pop Granger’s lightening fast mandolin solo.
Just as we segue to “Jesus Loves You,” we swing into the parking lot of
Uncle Hog is whistling with the song.
Then it’s off to the
You might, too.
Uncle Hog has stopped the bus long enough for us to note that the Bible guys are characters you’d best avoid.
One has that drugged-up evangelists’ smile/smirk/sneer. He’s in a suit. His jacket is buttoned. He must be the senior guy here. One of his companions, also in a suit, with less of that evango-look on his face, is digging more books out of a carton. The third guy looks like a
This morning’s paper has a letter from student saying these guys make her uncomfortable and they disrupt kids on their way to class. Ordinarily, the discomfort defense doesn’t sit well. This time, you have to agree. These guys would make a corpse twitch.
Uncle Hog returns from a side trip to the coffee shop, but he’s not carrying coffee. He gets back on the bus and we’re off to catch up with the garbage truck.
Most of the passengers at this point are elderly women who ride for free. Good thing, too. The got on carrying armloads of stuff from the Church of Wal-Mart and would take forever to put them down, rifle through their purses for the fare ($1.25, exact change only) delaying the race with the toxic fume-mobile.
And Uncle Hog just HATES to be late.
I'm Wes Richards, my opinions are my own, but you're welcome to them.
(c) 2006 WJR