I am on the bus.
I am on the bus. I'm reading from one of my endless collection of instructional guides- whether it be, 'How to repair the radiator in your '96 Ford Focus,' or, 'Clearing paper jams in your HP Deskjet 482 printer,' I cannot say- but I am struggling to keep my eyes ajar. I do enjoy partaking in such material though- it allows me to speak with an air of authority on these mechanisms, despite possessing no hands-on knowledge or owning the objects myself. One may assume, however, that such catalogues grow tiresome quickly. And one would be correct in that assumption. So I find myself passing out every ten to fifteen minutes.
A curly-coiffed male talks loudly behind me. I glare at him in annoyance, then rest my cheek squarely against the nearby window. I hear myself screaming, "Get Me Off Of This Fucking Bus!" and look up to see a fellow standing before me with a comic book in hand containing a panel of large-busted nudes. This man is pantless- he possesses a large purple erection approximately the size of a persimmon tree. And this cock-tree is dangerously close to impaling my eye. But it occurs to me then that one does not stand reading anything while riding the Greyhound, so I must be asleep.
The driver announces over the intercom sporadically, "Get out of my life, Nathan Detroit," for reasons unknown.
An elderly woman says she wants to go back to college in order to study either politics or air conditioner repair, while the persimmon sprinkles gold dust from its urethra. A mustachioed fellow is inhaling ox jism and yak secretions- he turns to me and says that such medicines have a certain, 'je ne sais que,' about them which means, 'I don't know what,' in the French so it's difficult to quibble with him there. A heavy wind arises- we are on a boat, sailing on a sea of my very own ass sweat- a capuchin monkey and meerkat lie next to me prostrate. We are re-creating a ritual foreign to any spirits I have met intimately, or know of through my regular social channels. Thusly, I am forced to postulate that we are performing this rite in error.
I awake- I find a chip clip attached to my foreskin. Reverse circumcision- a regenerative procedure I do not in any way remember signing up for. My neck hurts- I massage it gently- and my eyes begin to focus. And I realize nothing has transpired in my lap whatsoever.
A sketchy gent asks me whether I think, 'Punta Gorda,' means, 'fat bitch,' or, 'fat point,' and I inform him I try not to engage blackguard chaps like himself. He requests money- I tell him I have none as I disembark. He shouts, "God bless you," in a way that suggests, 'God bless you with an anvil from your ankle,' and I wave goodbye, turning to see Father waiting in the depot.
- Dan Gleason