Bulletin Schmulletin #3





When I go to the supermarket deli section, all they have of some kinds of meat is the shaved version. Why? Did a vast majority of the community suddenly develop short attention span of the teeth?


And when I ask whether I could have the same thing, only cut in a more enjoyable thickness, like how a normal person (or even me) might like to have it, the folks behind the counter always say they can’t do that.


I gather this is because, in nature, as a result of years of selective cross-breeding, the salami trees only produce their fruit in microscopically thin shaven form these days.





Real people I met during my travels earlier today. *


(* Note – “real people” does not necessarily denote any sturdy down-home humanistic values, nor does it imply anything particularly people-like. They actually hang out on this planet – that’s about the whole deal.)




When I got on the bus, these were three people who I didn’t realise were together until they started declaiming trivial chitchat to each other at stentorian volume so that the entire bus, city and planet had a fair shot of hearing them.


This was because they’d strewn themselves over three separate double-seats across the width of the bus (and also in depth terms, over two rows of seats), thus cunningly blocking out at least three full chairs that fellow human beings could have otherwise utilised, and guaranteeing they would be yodelling at full volume when they spoke to each other.


The three banks of seats were, of course, the best ones on the bus – i.e. the only ones on that kind of configuration of bus that have any real leg-room – so that Crampy Grampy here was wedged into a seat with none. (It was the start of the route, so most of the rest of the bus was unoccupied at this point.)


In conclusion, I gently advance my theory that these people should be shot in the leg, nursed back to health over a period of months, involving the latest in physical therapy, and then shot again.





Later on the same journey, a giant tawny crested bearded babbler gets on the bus, wedges his golf bag and self in a prime leg-room seat, to displace as many old people as possible so they have to stand, and immediately launches jaw, mouth and tonsils in a sustained attack on his mobile phone at a volume that would have had AC/DC saying, “Really? Is there no decency?”


Even though I had closed-style (over the ear) headphones on, at a pretty burgeoning volume, I had no problem hearing him whatsoever. He was locked in one of the mandatory public transport phone verbal gymnastic routines: you know the types – it’s all “big business”, multi-million dollar deals, and the mobile phone messiah concerned is the only person who can sort out all the office politics, which you’re about to hear in labyrinthine detail.


What flipped over all the proverbial cards about this was that he was about 21 (years of age and stone – I don’t think Mom cheated him when it came to portions on twice-weekly Lasagne Night), had been playing golf on a weekday afternoon, yet was riding the bus to do so.


Oh, yeah and when he was swinging his Myki card around to emphasise some of the vital points he was making in the epic-length call of Commonwealth, Olympic and world record breaking volume, I couldn’t help but notice it was a concession card.


In short, other than within the fraying pants of his mind, the braying dingleberry concerned was about as much a business mogul as Muttley from the “Wacky Races” cartoons or Cecil the Seasick Sea-Serpent. Or even the average sports administrator.


So, anyhoo, I shot him the Eyeball of Aggravated Disbelief, gave him a few world class Aussie mutters along the lines of “You’d HAVE to be joking” give or take a swearing word, and he finally packed it in (after a good 10-15 minutes), although the usual passive-aggressive streak and general in-built dildo-ism guaranteed he’d have to have another brief crack, but that was right where I was getting off the bus anyway, so I left him fondly sinking in the sunset, with a clearly articulated clinical diagnosis of “Idiot”, (in earshot) and a two-finger salute to godspeed him on his way as the bus merged with the setting sun in departure.




On the return journey, a previously dormant knob-head suddenly discovered his opera-volume voice not far from my point of escape – a change of buses – but he gave it a jolly good seeing to, apparently (as so many are) completely oblivious to the annoyance of everybody else on the vehicle.


(There really wasn’t so much as a moth fart’s worth of noise on the rest of the bus.)


This guy was yodelling so loudly, in whatever language of another planet it happened to be, that I came very close to saying precisely what was on my mind. Which was that out of the windows on my side of the bus, I’d noticed a couple of drivers signalling to me that they couldn’t quite hear the detail of what he was saying in his private conversation on his mobile phone that everybody in the electorate was listening to, but if he just yelled just the barest tad louder, no doubt all of the motorists in the area could have picked up the finer details of the call.


The only thing that stopped me – the ONLY thing – was that the next stop was my stop.


I get off there, and note the time on the electric display next to the bus shelter. On the other side is the timetable with my bus times on it. But I can’t quite get to that today, because there’s someone in the way.


It’s a man leaning against the timetable pole at a rakish angle. I approach. He doesn’t move. I approach closer, peering at the timetable. I can’t see the numbers on it. Could if I was closer, but I’m not and Numbnuts McTaggerty is in the road.


Not only doesn’t he move, but he has some sort of thin stinkweed “rolly” cigarette action going, and puffs some generously in my face as I’m trying to determine the time of the next bus.


I see he has a couple of crutches leaning against the adjacent pole supporting another couple of timetables, but I’m not all that sympathetic, as I notice he seems to be able to stand perfectly well, without exhibiting any particular discomfort, without accessing the crutches, while he’s blocking me and everybody else from the timetables and blowing smoke in our faces.


Finally, I say “I’m short sighted and I need to see that timetable” and he withdraws slightly with no apology and no graciousness whatsoever, and blows a little more smoke in my kisser.


When the bus comes, I bite down on all retaliatory instincts and make a point of letting him on first, since he’s on crutches. If there was a “thank you” coming to me about this, well, I imagine it will turn up in the post at some point.


In summation let me say when it comes to the likes of Golfing Lad and Crutch-Head McGee – apart from the notion that the best possible place for them regarding buses would be under one – that I am very much “down” – as the young people say – with the headline earlier in the week that suggested scientists had determined that human evolution was completely finished.


However on the evidence of the chowderheads I ran into, I’d say it went toes up roughly 25 years ago.

























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