NOTE: Guest contributor #7 is Griffin, easily the most famous one-named person in history. Prince, Madonna, Moses - suck it.

            None of us like riding the bus. Fact. Except creepiest homeless guy who fucking loves it, but that is neither here nor there. It is always hot, crowded, and lame. But today, you are all taking it to a whole new level. It is 8 o’clock in the morning. I am late for class, and when I get there I am just going to need to listen to a whole bunch of faux-intellectual Boston University d-bags regurgitating text-book materials in arrogant tones like they just thought the shit up. I am a bit hung over. Needless to say, I am on edge, and some of you cunts are seriously exacerbating the situation. In fact, it is only my lack of a sawn-off shotgun that keeps you from becoming this evenings top story. To avoid this impending tragedy, let’s analyze a few of the more flagrant offenders to bus etiquette.

          Number one: Tall asian guy with faux-hawk and ridiculously sized backpack:

You seem like a nice guy. Kind of shy, little bit nervous. Probably very socially awkward. You have an unfortunate hair-style, but who am I to judge? We would be fine if you would take off your fucking backpack.  It’s like you have a baby hippopotamus strapped to your back. I am surprised that your anemic-looking-frame can even hold that shit up, nevermind the fact that you somehow seem to manage to swing it back and forth as hard as fucking possible, leaving a wake of destruction in its path. Remove that ridiculous rucksack, retard. Take it the fuck off dude, and just put it on the ground. That way you can give your lumbar a break, and I won’t garrote you with the drawstring of my hoody.

            Number two: The most enormous black lady on earth.

Listen, I am sorry you are fat, but I see you on here all the time, and you never go more than four blocks. I mean, cause and effect: You are a lazy slob who rides the bus for distances that you could cover if you laid on your side and rolled once, hence you are obscenely obese. Literally, if you walked two blocks a day you would lose half of that weight. But it’s not just the fact that you are so immense that bothers me. First of all, it takes you twenty minutes to get on the bus with that stroller. They need to lower it, you need to truffle shuffle the fuck on, then they need to raise it up again. You then need to remember which roll you hid your Charlie card in, which burns up some more time while the poor bastards behind you freeze waiting to get on the now over-burdened bus. Like this isn’t bad enough, for the duration of your ride you bellow into your cell phone. There is a dog who lives in my neighborhood who has had his voice box removed and can only emit a hoarse, raspy bark; while this is a completely inappropriate measure to be taken against that poor pooch, I feel like the surgery would do you a world of good. Failing that, you should at least be required by law to wear an apparatus that measures the decibels you are emitting and administers a Rambo II-esque electric shock every time you exceed an appropriate volume.

            Number three: Marginally attractive girls with huge sunglasses and excessive self-esteem.

If we were at a party, and my good friend Frederick Knickerbocker Hayes were to come across you, he would make something overwhelmingly clear the first time any of you spoke. When you rattled off with something like, “Timmy Thompson won’t stop calling me. Yea right Timmy, as if.” He would reply with, “You are not that hot. Get over yourself.” I appreciate this direct approach, and I feel like the cold naked truth would hit you like sweet chin music and we could all move on. Because honestly, you aren’t that hot. In the game of “Would you?” you would be a “If I was blackout drunk and she didn’t speak one time.” Strategically placing your girlfriends in scattergram formation throughout the bus so you need to speak over everybody to complain about how some guy won’t stop calling you does not improve your physical attraction rating, which is, again, mediocre at best. Please refer to the suggested cures for excessive volume in the previous rant. I can’t wait until you have to lose the puffy down jacket in the spring and the oversized bug shields go out of style, and you are no longer able to hoodwink decent people into thinking you're a babe. Karma is a bitch.

            Number four: Nervously aggressive dork

Dude, I see that your backpack says BU on it, so you are probably getting off of the bus somewhere between the BU bridge and Kenmore square. We are at Harvard Ave in rush hour traffic - pop some fuckin’ tranquilizers and chill out. There is no need to stake your claim so hard every time people get on or off the bus. You are boxing me out like I am going for an offensive rebound and a chance to win the championship. You are lucky I don’t give you a fucking wedgie and stuff you into a locker, bitch.

            Number five: Creepiest homeless guy

Listen, I know that homeless guys love the bus. It is warm, and inexpensive. I tolerate almost all of you, except for the guy who looks like a white Kat Stevens. Every time you get on the bus I am overwhelmed by the stench of Mad dog twenty/twenty and rape victim’s tears. You literally drool over broads that are terrified of you. I hate to break it to you hombre, but it’s time to lower your standards. Super-dope 20 year-old babes don’t give blowjobs to toothless crack-heads who haw booze-breath in their faces at 8 AM, except at gunpoint. That is an incontrovertible fact, and your mouth breathing “You are soooo beautiful” into their faces is not helping your case one little bit. Each time you open your mouth I would love to cock back and break your brittle old homeless face bones, and it is only my fear that your crack-head strength would allow you to fight through the pain long enough to reach back into your pants and pack my mouth with a handful of steamy shit that stays my vengeful wrath.

            Number six: Euro-Trash techno fan.

Is there any need for you to be playing Tiesto at ear-splitting volumes this early? I mean seriously, you only have one of your enormous headphones on your ear, the other one is facing outwards to better annoy the rest of us. I don’t have headphones on, doesn’t mean you need to share with me. Honestly, this alone would be enough of an excuse for your execution in my book, but you take it so much further: violent head-bobbing, the popped collar of your sky blue adidas jump-suit, the overwhelming reek of cologne, your occasional eastern-block mutterings, all combine to create a perfect storm of lame that can only be summed up by saying that you, sir, are a cunt. Like that wasn’t bad enough, you need to click your tongue piercing against your teeth like you are playing percussion while making disgusting masturbation noises with your mouth. Keep your dick-tickler quiet or I am going to punch you right in your noisy cock-holster.

             If any of this came across as harsh, then good. You all need it. I believe that I speak for all of us who sit quietly or have a quiet conversation with friends when I say that I would not mind if, in some freak accident, you were all hurled from the bus into a fucking tornado and were then struck repeatedly by lightning and artillery shells. Fuck yourselves. Hard.

Yours truly,

Griffin