Shit Like That, and Shit

I wouldn’t say he was a crackpot or nothing, maybe a wee scrambled in the head, but that’s about it as it is and all. The first time I see him he’s reading the National Geographic on the bus, the number two bus, bus, sitting not too far from me on a seat not too far from this lady with one of those push and pull carryalls. I figure he must be scrambled in the brains as he’s actually reading the National Geographic, something you don’t all see that much of, considering that most people, most people I know at least, just read the stuff under the pictures, that kind of reading, not full-fledged reading like the kind you do in school or from prayer books on Sundays, or Saturdays depending on whether you’re a Christian or not. Guys like him, you figure if they haven’t had their brains tampered with, with knitting needles, that sort of shit that happens, so I hear, in asylums and crackpot hospitals. Poor bastard might even have a bump or something on his brain, right underneath the eye socket where they push in a knitting needle, kind of tamp it in there like they’re doing some knitting or crocheting, that kind of shit, shit like that. I even heard that they even goes as far as to cut out pieces of the brain, like coring out an apple or a cantaloupe, that kind of tampering and buggering about, in someone’s brain, for God’s sake. Its no wonder, really, that the sad cunt reads the whole National Geographic and not just the underneath stuff. Really, when you think it over, which you do, cause it is worth thinking, guys like him probably don’t understand a word their reading, not a fucking word, really. Sad fucking world we live in, fucking pathetic if you want my opinion. Then you never know whether you might end up like him, all scrabbled and knit into a fucking sweater, it could happen--it just could, you never know, for sure that is. I know my opinion isn’t worth much, probably shit, whose is, really, I mean when you get right down to it what most people say is shit, pure shit, me included. So he’s sitting across not far from me and this lady with the fucking carryall who looks pretty dim herself. I mean man the shit you see on the bus, too much to take in at one time, that is, all at once and without a break, a breather, let’s say. If I had it my way, which I never will, I’d take a fucking cab or walk, that is if it weren’t too far, I mean too far or up-hill. But the chances of me having it my way are slim to nil, so I’m pretty well fucked from the get-go, fucking carryalls, not much use when you got to lug the fuckers up-hill or round and round like a merry-go-fucking-round, now is it, just not worth the energy or bother, fuck no. Sleeping now that’s foolish, a waste of time, anyone worth they’re weight in saltpetre knows that. All sleep does is remind you just how much shit you have to do and how much time you wasted sleeping when you could have been doing it. Like reading the National Geographic or knitting a fucking sweater. There just aren’t enough sweaters, at least not enough to go around. I couldn’t think of a homelier way to read than wrapped up in a sweater, all woolly and cinched up round the bobbin of your neck. That cowfish of a lady, the one with the carryall, she’d look exceptional in a sweater, all that wool and dye and lanolin next to her skin, a sight for sore eyes, better yet, an eye for sore sight. I can be pretty magnificent when I want, when I put my noggin to it, like now, like right this fucking minute. Salt-fucking-petre, now that’s some nasty shit, makes what goes up come down, a fucking free-for-all. That sad bastard, sadder than a fucking tumour, sitting close by not far from me and that cowfish lady, the carryall lady, reading the National fucking Geographic, the whole fucking thing, not just the shit under the pictures. Makes you wonder, makes you wonder what the fuck he’s going to read when he finishes the Geographic. Bastard’s sadder than a cowlick on a cow, down right pathetic, really. But my opinion is worth shit, so why listen the fuck to me?