I woke up this morning to the news of Biden’s college loan forgiveness program. Ugh, my reaction was visceral, and here’s why. I went to college, I borrowed money, I worked while attending class, and when I graduated, I got a job and paid every penny back because I said I would. My word means something and has value.
With the Biden Administration crowing about low unemployment, low gas prices, reduced inflation, and the improving economy, why are they forgiving hundreds of billions in college loan debt? It’s confusing to say the least. I needed a little clarification, and who should come to my rescue? None other than the immortal and all-knowing Susan Rice.
Bus Driver Warning: The gobbledygook goes on for more than an hour. You only need to listen to the first twelve minutes (or so).
Focused by conservative lensing and forged through years of bus driver experience, my takeaway from Susan’s scholarly explanation was straightforward and simple.
If I have to pay for someone else’s Master’s Degree, then someone with a Master’s Degree (or higher) needs to pay for my mortgage.
Keep in mind, I’m a prime example of what she’s talking about; a college graduate working in the Biden economy as a bus driver with no viable means to pay off my debt.
Dr. Susan Rice (Ph.D. Philosophy), or better yet, Dr. Jill Biden (Ed.D. Education), my mortgage is due on the 15th. Guys, don’t worry, I live within my means (to the best of my ability) so my home isn’t extravagant. The bank needs $1,894.38 per month for the next 30 years, give or take. I’ve never been late, so I don’t know the penalties, but I’m sure they’re steep. Remember, the payment is due on or before the 15th.
Here’s a helpful financial hint for whoever decides to pick up the ball and run with it. You can save yourself a lot of money if you pay off the loan in its entirety. You’ll save on interest, insurance, and TAXES too. One low payment of only $221,193.07 and your financial responsibility to me, and my family, will be satisfied forever. Think about it … it makes cents. 😊
PS – Lest you think this is a farce. Here’s a list of supporting topics from Heritage Action:
Sadly, it’s not even remarkable or noteworthy when a driver cuts in front of my bus right as I’m braking for a stop light. Usually, it’s the driver of a Smart Car (see what I did there), but not always.
The other day as I was bringing my 42,000-pound commercial vehicle to a stop, the driver of an old ½-ton Ford pickup cuts in front of me, shorting my braking distance by at least twenty feet. But I’m an experienced professional, so the stop was made safely without anyone onboard ever noticing.
While waiting at the light, I started to read the bumper stickers in front of me. Only one was worth mentioning.
Why was this one interesting? Upon closer inspection, I noticed that the pickup driver was a woman. Putting aside the LGBT (LMNOP+) stuff for a long moment, maybe the Wife needs to go to driving school, you know, truth in advertising.
The day started uneventfully. My first loop is typically slow with only a handful of passengers boarding or disembarking. That means very few stops and a reasonably quick loop. For those who don’t already know, a standard route starts and stops at the same point. We call that point a transfer stop. Passengers use it to change buses and continue their journey. So, for obvious reasons, we call a one-hour trip around the route, a loop.
Just a little more background is needed before we dive in, bear with me. There are no bathrooms on the bus, so if you have a problem using public facilities, driving a bus will challenge your kidneys, bladder, and bowels.
Because we have a schedule to keep, drivers use public bathrooms close to bus stops. We simply pull up to a stop, secure the bus, and jump out to take care of business. Passengers wait patiently because, well, they have no choice.
Okay, I think that’s enough back-story for this episode.
Our story begins on what we refer to as the lunch loop. You might think the lunch loop is when you take lunch, but that would be wrong. The lunch loop is the loop you complete just before you take lunch. My lunch loop was from noon to 1:00 pm.
I began my lunch loop with an empty bus, and the first few stops along the way were empty, so it was a good time to make a pit stop. There’s a fast-food restaurant (which I will not name) that is conveniently located near one of my stops, and as you might guess, I use the restroom frequently.
I went in and began to use the urinal. I’ll spare the particulars. Suffice it to say, I was in the process of using it as intended when I heard some loud grunts and groans coming from the toilet stall next to me. I figured I better hurry before being overwhelmed by the impending stench. But I’m a bus driver, and we have, by necessity, large capacity bladders. The grunts and groans grew louder until finally, there was a crescendo that faded to a long moan and then silence.
As soon as I could, I finished up and washed my hands. That’s when the guy in the stall started talking to himself. The voice sounded the same, but the words were two different sides of a conversation that went like this.
“Wow, that was big.”
“Told you so.”
“Deep. The last time I did something like that, I literally passed out.”
“Really? How long were you out?”
“About fifteen minutes, I almost had a heart attack.”
I finished washing my hands and went to the hand dryer. It took forever to warm up, probably because I was trying to hurry. I wanted to avoid the stench, and the crazy, lurking in that toilet stall just a few feet away. As the fan began blowing hot air, the door to the stall opened, and two guys walked out. They pretended not to see me as they exited the restroom.
BTW and FYI, they were restaurant employees … and they didn’t wash. Think about that next time you throw caution to the wind and tempt the Junk-Food-Profits. See what I did there?
As if that isn’t enough for one lunch loop, later, I pick up a guy with a bike. He takes his time putting it on the rack and shorts the fare, but its Friday and I let him ride.
Time for some more back-story.
You would think that most people about to have a private telephone conversation would say something like, I’ll call you back when I get off the bus, or I’m on the bus now, so let me call you back in a few minutes. But you’d be wrong; they not only take the call, they speak with their outside voice.
That should suffice; on with the story.
My passenger’s phone rang, and he answered.
No, I just got on the bus.
No, we can’t. I won’t be home for like half an hour.
If we do, we’ll be late.
I had to take care of some stuff. It took longer than I thought. I’m coming home now and we ….
No, you’d have to reschedule the appointment.
I already told you. I had stuff to do. Damn!
You know I have a life too! I have things to do and it takes time. Why does it always have to be about sex with you?
It’s always about sex … Bro. Damn Bro! You need to start respecting me, Bro.
Don’t say that Bro. That’s fucking so disrespectful. Bro, Bro, if you want to fuck, you better start respecting me and you ain’t doing it right now.
End of call.
In conclusion, the undeniable fact remains as always, they really don’t pay me enough.
PS – My passengers already know not to use profanity on my bus. Usually, it’s just a loud outburst, and if it doesn’t stop immediately, I’ll stop the bus. But by the time the shock of his X-rated call subsided, and I could say something about his language with a STRAIGHT face (see what I did there?), we were at the transfer stop.
And when I say everyone, I mean the seven or eight followers I have that actually read my posts.
Yeah. Don’t worry. I have no delusions of grandeur. Dreams yes, but I know that when it comes to being read on the internet, you need celebrity first. People really don’t give a damn what a lowly bus driver in Florida has to say. However, it is important for you to note, free speech is still alive and well in the Free State of Florida. And I’m a perfect example.
If you count yourself among the seven or eight who actually look forward to my posts, then I’m sorry about missing last week. As I’ve explained in the past, real-life sometimes gets in the way, taking precedence over blogging.
Personally, it makes me miserable when that happens, and the past week was pretty rough as far as attitude is concerned. I know, especially in light of current world events, not being able to write seems a poor excuse for allowing yourself to feel miserable. And you’re right, unless the reason you spend your week driving a bus is so you can spend your weekends writing.
I guess you need to be a writer to understand but, this is my life, or what’s left of it.
PS – Just to give you an idea of my level of sacrifice, as of last month, I could make more money working a register at Walmart than I can driving a bus. This is yet another example of my precipitous spiral downward, fueled by poor decisions and the cruelty of fate. I should probably quit my job and go work for the Walton Family.
On the way home from work the other day, I was listening to the Jesse Kelly Show. If you’ve never heard of him and you’re curious, check him out on iHeart radio jessekellyshow.com. Anyway, he was doing a foot-in-mouth segment and invited the audience to call in. I work a ten-hour day, it was late, and I was listening in my truck on the way home, so I didn’t call. But it did remind me of a funny incident that happened to me.
Years ago, I think it was a Saturday, and the family was hanging out in the living room. We were going through boxes of stuff to give away. Most of it was old kid clothes, some toys, and other miscellaneous items. It was actually a fun time, nostalgic too. That is until I inadvertently screwed everything up.
I had just reached for another box and opened it up. Inside, was a pair of blue jean shorts. This wouldn’t be particularly unique except for one thing, they were enormous. These jean shorts were definitely not kid-sized unless the kid was huge.
I held them up and asked, “Whose are these? I bet I could fit in them”.
The kids looked and immediately started to giggle. “They’re not mine…” “They’re not mine either.” They certainly weren’t going to take credit for this monstrosity.
I giggled too, and joked, “Seriously, I think these would fit me.” Soon there were chants from the peanut gallery. Put them on… Put them on…
Some FYI stuff for context. First, I’m not skin and bones, also, I’m not obese. I do work out and even jog on occasion, but for the most part, I’m a medium build. That said. The wife is a dime (a ten in ‘70s vernacular). She was a ten when I met her, and a ten when we divorced. Now, back to the story.
So I yuck it up with the kids by doing a little back-and-forth. Should I put them on…? No, maybe I shouldn’t… Well, maybe I should, just to see if they fit.
They were laughing their heads off and egging me on. Finally, I make the fatal decision to give the kids what they desperately want. I put on the shorts.
Viola. Not only did the pants fit, but there was also room to spare, except for the crotch, a very important fact to remember. While I could move around in the pants, I couldn’t sit or bend over because the crotch was really tight. I figured they were kid jeans, why wouldn’t it be tight. Still, the shorts were big enough that I could zip everything up.
Okay. There I am, prancing around the living room in these enormous kid jeans. The kids are falling off the couch laughing. I’m laughing too. Then, I look over at the wife, and she ….. She is shooting me with lightning bolts, daggers, and poison darts, all at the same time. Her eyes were on fire. She is so angry that the vein on the side of her neck looked like an inner tube ready to pop. I could see it pulsing from across the room.
I didn’t know what I did wrong, but I figured I better end it now. So I say to the kids, “Okay, that’s enough. We still have a bunch of boxes to go through.”
And to show that I meant business—and to score a feeble point with the wife, I took the pants off right there in front of everyone. Oh, did I forget to mention that the pants were so big they even fit over the pants I was already wearing? Yes, I suppose I did.
Anyway, I hold up the pants, look at the wife, and ask again, “Whose pants are these?”
She looks me straight in the eye and says in that low, simmering, angry voice all women have—“They’re mine.”
Yes. It seems that before I met the wife, there was a period of time when she was obese. A period of time I never knew about.
PS – I’m not saying that this led to my breakup, but I’m sure it didn’t help. And yes, revenge is best served ….. in enormous blue jean shorts.
In yesterday’s post, I hinted at a second entertaining story courtesy of my passengers, and here it is.
But first, let me set the scene. It was a clear and crisp day. The kind of day people pay good money to experience during Florida’s winter.
FYI—For all you northeast liberals: I’m a conservative, and just like everything else I say, I just lied about the weather. The truth is the weather sucks. Also, mask and vax mandates, Joe’s build back better (or for worse) plan, and defunding the police, are huge successes. So stay right where you are, and keep on voting for politicians like AOC and Joe Biden.
Now, back to setting the scene:
My bus is a full fare bus which means $1.50 buys you a seat. There are qualified discounts, but first, you must qualify. We also have free-fare bus routes for people who live in certain areas. For this story, we’ll say that people from Tim-Buck-Too (fictitious) qualify to ride these free routes, but again, the route I drive is not free, so that doesn’t apply.
My route is a big loop, approximately one hour long. On this particular loop, I arrived at one of my stops with an empty bus and slightly ahead of schedule. One passenger was waiting to board, so I knelt the bus and opened the doors.
Big Red, as we will affectionately call him for obvious reasons (he’s big and has red hair), boards my bus and feeds a dollar into the farebox. Then, he continues to his seat as though he paid the full fare. To do it right takes practice because you need to do it fast, and in one swift motion. It’s the first rule of bad ridership. If you don’t do it right, you have to stop, allowing the driver an opportunity to catch you shorting the fare. Big Red was an expert, and as such, made his way to the rear of the bus. He figured that he got away with it again (Dumb driver), mistake number one.
I waited until he got comfortable in the back seat of my 40-foot bus. Why? Because I’m not as dumb as I look and this isn’t my first rodeo. “Excuse me, sir. The fare is $1.50.” Big Red pretended not to hear me—standard operating procedure for experienced riders. But I wasn’t deterred and repeated, “Sir, the fare, it’s a $1.50.”
“Oh. I didn’t know. I never rode the bus before, and everyone said it was a dollar.”
Mistake number two, I know he’s an experienced rider but I played along. “No sir. This is a full-fare bus and it’s a $1.50.”
Big Red didn’t like being challenged like that, so he forgot the second rule of bad ridership; when the driver expects you to come to the front of the bus for any reason, always walk as slow as possible. Remember, the driver has a schedule to keep. But Big Red let his temper get the best of him and charged to the front. “Since when is it a $1.50? I always pay a dollar.”
Mistake number three. He just said that he was a new rider. I ignored this mistake as well and pointed to the front of the farebox. “What does it say?” When Big Red finished reading, he just stood there like a statue. So, I repeated, “What does it say?”
He hadn’t figured out a response yet, so he told the truth. “It says a $1.50 but ….. Oh. Wait. What if I’m from Tim-Buck-Too?” If he was a new rider, how would he know about Tim-Buck-Too? Mistake number four.
I looked him straight in the eye and said, “I don’t care if you’re from Pluto. This is a full-fare bus.”
He shot back with the smartest-ass answer he could muster, “What if I’m from Uranus (pronounce your anus)?”
I’m an experienced driver, and insults like this don’t really faze me one way or the other. So I said with a smile, “Then you’ll have to get off my bus.”
He wasn’t expecting that response, especially attached to a big smile. It caught him off guard because he was trying to anger me and it didn’t work. He paid the 50 cents and went back to his seat wondering what the hell just happened.
Here’s another FYI. Drivers are still required to wear Biden-Masks even though passengers are not. How does that make any sense? I don’t know. Anyway, I repositioned it so it could finally serve a function, help hide my laughter.
By the time we got to the end of the route, Big Red wanted to get off the bus to smoke a cigarette before continuing. The route ends and begins at a transfer stop where we wait five minutes while passengers change buses. On his way off the bus, he stops and asks, “Is it okay if I go smoke a cigarette?”
I’m still trying to hold back laughter, “Sure.”
He didn’t realize it, but the joke was on him and every time he opened his mouth, I had to struggle not to laugh. He saw that I wasn’t angry, and for the life of him, he didn’t know why. The more he thought about it the more he started to worry. Then, he realized that he was physically off the bus and earlier I mentioned something about him having to get off my bus. I could see it on his face. He was really confused and getting more concerned by the minute.
It was time for me to stretch my legs. As I got off the bus, I walked past him and started to make my way down the loading deck towards the security guard. Big Red saw this and panicked. Then, he did the only thing he could. “Driver! I’m sorry about that Uranus remark.”
I turned back, “Why? I thought you meant it as a joke.”
Big Red was at a loss. “Uh, I did.”
“Well, that’s how I took it. If you didn’t mean it as a joke, you’re walking.”
“No. No. It was totally a joke.”
I wasn’t trying to get the security guard’s attention, I just happened to walk in his direction. He looked at me and asked, “What’s that about?”
“I’ll tell you later.” And then, I walked to the other side of my bus and cracked up laughing until it was time to go.
In case you missed the joke, when my passenger posed the question, “What if I came from Uranus (pronounced your anus)?” He quite literally called himself a piece of shit.
A Big Red Piece of Shit.
Sometimes, the hardest part of my job is keeping a straight face.