The Next Rosa Parks

It’s about 3 1/2 to 4 hours to the beach…by car.

By motorcycle, the ride is about 5  and 1/2 hours. Why so much longer? Because it was cold, and I needed frequent hot chocolate stops. (With Borders gone, I now deem Wawa’s push-button hot chocolate the best.)

And my tushie hurt from sitting on the motorcycle. My tushie may have actually flattened out, so I’ll probably need to buy a Booty Pop to return my behind to its former glory.

By the time we reached Ocean City, I was done with the motorcycle, so we took the OC bus.

The only problem was one other rider on the bus.

Specifically, the homeless guy. More specifically, the passed-out homeless guy. Even more specifically, the passed-out homeless guy who had the worst case of gas ever…or who may have actually gone to the bathroom in his pants.

Imagine the homeless guy passed out dead center of the bus, and everyone else crammed into the very front or very back of the bus with their shirts over the noses as impromptu gas masks. (Because obviously cotton t-shirts block out all odors. I didn’t do that because I’m an adult now dammit. Adults suffer through stench without any expression.)

I want to give him the benefit of the doubt (I felt sorry for him) that it was just flatulence or old cheese nearby, but no else agreed with me. They all claimed he all had an “accident.”

And what if it wasn’t him? What if it was someone else? What if someone smeared smelly, old cheese under his seat and now he was the fall guy?

Whatever happened to he who smellt it, dealt it?

And why were we making fun of this guy? He got a seat on a crowded bus. He’s a visionary. You might even compare him to Rosa Parks.