I’ve got 99 problems and having to use public transport is at the top of my list. I HATE BUSES in particular.
Here’s twelve reasons why buses are shit
Personal space may be slight but it is a big issue. You’re either stood beneath someone’s armpit or someone else is jammed next to you and taking up half of your seat as well as their own. MOVE.
Not being able to choose your company. People that smell like stale ashtrays for example, oh please, come sit by me and awaken my senses.
Stop standing on the seat. Stay still. Be silent.
People that don’t discipline their children.
People aged around fifteen years of age, shouting about all the alcohol they’ve consumed that weekend and reminding you of how much of a show you were when you yourself were a fifteen year old on a bus.
People that decide the entire bus should relive the days of N-Dubz. ‘I (don’t) need you you you, I need you’.
The fact that the bus driver never has the right change and acts like you’ve just pissed on his windshield when you hand in a tenner.
Buses are NEVER on time. Timetables are as pointless as a sunbed made of ice. You’d be better getting a crystal ball out or checking if the stars have aligned in a way that would indicate that the 437 to West Kirby will be due at 11.43am.
Lewis Hamilton, bus drivers are not and there is nothing more frustrating than driving at a max speed of 20mph knowinggggggg you could have driven to your destination yourself in half the time. In rush hour. On a bike. With a punctured wheel.
The luxury of a taxi ride is reserved solely for payday week (if we’re lucky) and weekend trips to town, where we recover from the weeks bus related trauma. During the week however, this Cinderella’s chariot awaits to escort me to work in all its double decker glory. And I won’t lie, I’ve seen chirpier funeral processions than the Monday morning bus rides to work.
The Hunger Games style battle for the last remaining seat on the first post-work bus. Blood will be shed, people will cry, sacrifices will be made. Then, you’ll stand and offer your seat anyway to the old lady or gentleman that gets on at the next stop because that’s what us decent gals do.
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