PITBAs

Apparently, some local bus passengers have very big balls.

They tend to grow big or bigger when they’re sitting in a bus.

I don’t know if it’s due to the powers of recycled filthy canned air, cheap felt of back-breaking butt-busting seats or despicable scent of persistent price hiking.

But whatever it is, these passengers must stretch their feeble legs SOOO wide and occupy SOOO much leg space you’d think they’re born with fucking testicles the size of Chihuahuas.

I love taking the bus but nothing – absolutely NOTHING – raises me bony heckles and peeves me to high fucking heaven MORE than having to suffer seat bullies and their pai-kia coolie spread-chicken sitting habits where their leg invades your sitting space.

With a quick and trained glance, a seasoned passenger can tell the seats where the pain-in-the-balls assholes (PITBAs) are spreading their legs just by their nonchalant I’m-lounging-at-an-awkward-angle-cos-I-got-tennis balls-for-ding dongs-and-I’m-airing-them-so-there posture and air.

And when the bus is crowded or your choice seats – I have mine – are highjacked, woe betide you plonk your sorry butt beside them cos you’d be met with a My-leg-has-superior-rights-to-part-of-your-seat-so-I-dare-you-to-nudge-me onceover and you’re forced to sit like a castratee and put your hands on your laps and pout like an osteoporotic geisha.

These damn PITBAs come in all awkward shapes and stupid sizes, dirty colours and shitty races, smelly youths and wrinkled ages.

Whatever their genes (or lack thereof), they’re just genetically programmed to ABSOLUTELY REFUSE to close up their legs when someone else takes the empty seat beside them.

I’m not into deportment here – I couldn’t care less.

It’s my SITTING COMFORT I’m griping about here, goddammit.

What-Is-So-Bloody-Difficult-About-That???

Like they would fucking get a groin stroke, explode a blood vein and die if they close their legs just a TEENY bit??

OR scared their fucking balls would BURST like in Alien izit??!!

Worst. Even women have grown testicles. Today I encountered the first female bus mutant. Fucking arrogant balls she got there too.

It’ll be one of my lifelong pet peeves I’m afraid, until I get a Bentley and an Ahmad, which will probably be in a next life…

Whatever or whoever they are, I just feel like pointing an elephant gun at their groins and blasting their pathetic wieners into jello.

I’m always stumped by them. Don’t their parents teach these PITBAs any manners? (I know mine did – my legs hurt at the memory.)

Or they don’t have parents?

I conclude only idiot PITBAs breed idioter PITBA-lings.

WEELLL. Tit breeds tat then. It’s war against PITBAs.

I’ve seen a wily old lady brazenly crash one ah mah foot against a petulant young punk’s errant limb to mind his ball-park space.

Good for her. But I don’t have her advanced age not to suffer a broken nose.

So. For the length of the journey before my PITBA alights, I suffer in osteporotic silence.

When the Thing has the ill-luck to stand up and alight before I do, I swing my legs out to give a wide berth.

But just before It can step off the seat, I swing back hard against the Knee and block the way while staring out the window with a Gee-I-think-I-saw-a-flying-pooty-tat puppy stare.

I got murdered by their looks and sulks many times as they banged against me leg and struggled loose – I just couldn’t be bothered to look at their faces.

The fuzzy warmth of petty revenge was therapeutic enough for me.