Leave the Driving to Us
Why is it that hillbillies always ride Greyhound buses? This past Friday marks the thirtieth or so anniversary of my last Greyhound bus ride. Or so I thought it was my last.
Up until the time I bought my first very own car for $600 in 1974, I was a Greyhound Regular between college and home. Each and every time I rode the Grey Ghost, it seemed to be filled with hillbillies of various sizes and aromas, all travellin’ to the “Big City” (Pittsburgh). Invariably, one of these slack-jawed yokels would choose the seat next to me and flap their hillbilly lips about how “they was a-goin’ to jine up the Army”. With recruits like those, it’s no wonder we lost that war.
Fast forward to 2006, and travel with me, my friends, on an epic journey from The Really Big City back to Pittsburgh, goin’ Greyhound. The same hillbillies were on this bus (they haven’t aged a day!) along with assorted NYC denizens- the crazy-haired man who muttered to himself the entire way, the wild-eyed grandmother who spoke not a word of English, and of course, an overabundance of women with seat-and-a-half wide asses who munched on Doritos and Ho Hos for each and every one of the 28,800 seconds it took to finally get there.
The hillbilly took his rightful place in the back of the bus, next to the charming lavatory (you had to step over his clodhoppers to get to the little accordion door). From the moment he got on until the moment he got off, his jaws never stopped a-flappin’. Addressing no one in particular and everyone in general, he recounted every Greyhound Journey he had ever made (“Now Cleveland… that there was a trip an’ a half, lemme jist tell ya!”). At each rest stop, he was the first one off to chain smoke half a dozen cigarettes, then the first one back on to cough up a lung for the next couple hundred miles.
Your Curmudgeon sat near the front of the bus. But not far enough away to keep from having a serious 1974-vintage hillbilly flashback. In my flashback, the crazy-mutters man and the fat women all ganged up and attacked the hillbilly, while the
grandmother ran around in circles waving her arms and cackling “scutta malocchio- poo poo poo!!!” while spitting through her fingers. Damn it, the hillbilly still came out on top. Covered with spit and Ho Ho wrappers, he emerged victorious, like a cockroach after a nuclear holocaust.
Leave the driving to us… but it’ll drive ya crazy. Lemme jist tell ya.
Up until the time I bought my first very own car for $600 in 1974, I was a Greyhound Regular between college and home. Each and every time I rode the Grey Ghost, it seemed to be filled with hillbillies of various sizes and aromas, all travellin’ to the “Big City” (Pittsburgh). Invariably, one of these slack-jawed yokels would choose the seat next to me and flap their hillbilly lips about how “they was a-goin’ to jine up the Army”. With recruits like those, it’s no wonder we lost that war.
Fast forward to 2006, and travel with me, my friends, on an epic journey from The Really Big City back to Pittsburgh, goin’ Greyhound. The same hillbillies were on this bus (they haven’t aged a day!) along with assorted NYC denizens- the crazy-haired man who muttered to himself the entire way, the wild-eyed grandmother who spoke not a word of English, and of course, an overabundance of women with seat-and-a-half wide asses who munched on Doritos and Ho Hos for each and every one of the 28,800 seconds it took to finally get there.
The hillbilly took his rightful place in the back of the bus, next to the charming lavatory (you had to step over his clodhoppers to get to the little accordion door). From the moment he got on until the moment he got off, his jaws never stopped a-flappin’. Addressing no one in particular and everyone in general, he recounted every Greyhound Journey he had ever made (“Now Cleveland… that there was a trip an’ a half, lemme jist tell ya!”). At each rest stop, he was the first one off to chain smoke half a dozen cigarettes, then the first one back on to cough up a lung for the next couple hundred miles.
Your Curmudgeon sat near the front of the bus. But not far enough away to keep from having a serious 1974-vintage hillbilly flashback. In my flashback, the crazy-mutters man and the fat women all ganged up and attacked the hillbilly, while the
grandmother ran around in circles waving her arms and cackling “scutta malocchio- poo poo poo!!!” while spitting through her fingers. Damn it, the hillbilly still came out on top. Covered with spit and Ho Ho wrappers, he emerged victorious, like a cockroach after a nuclear holocaust.Leave the driving to us… but it’ll drive ya crazy. Lemme jist tell ya.
posted by Curmudgeon at 10:33 PM
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