[written by Floozy]

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I have these annoying small people, that follow me around calling me Mom. If I don’t feed them they threaten me and I don’t want Child Services on my case, as I have my hands full with the Building Inspectorate right now, so I provide vittles to shut the midget people up. Tonight, The Golden Corral sign glowed winsomely as I drove up 29 with one brat wailing ‘I’m so hungry I’m going into a diabetic coma” and another one just wailing. »Read More

Popularity: 4% [?]

Can we talk about driving?  I know, I know.  It’s been the cranky topic du jour for years, but can we just puhleez use a turn signal once in a while?  Since I live down where many of our fine law enforcement personnel go to target shoot, many are on their cell phones, trying to navigate the twists and turns of Old Lynchburg Rd, and not doing such a hot job.  No wonder none of them are giving citations to other people on a hand-held cellphone while driving. »Read More

Popularity: 2% [?]

Fat, bearded, drooling man, take 2

There’s standing room only on the 8:30 am bus, and the aforementioned man is standing in my usual spot, propping himself up on the overhead bars. He sucks wind, rears his head back, and unleashes a deep, throaty sneeze. Unlike many other regulars, he bothers to cover his mouth, but it makes very little difference. Inspecting his hand, the man quickly recognizes that the contents of his left lung–in full–have wound up between his fingers. Having found myself in previous situations on more than one occasion, I expected the man to cast a furtive glance, make sure nobody was watching, and make use of a vacant pocket to wipe. But no. He latches onto the bar as if nothing has happened. I’m fairly certain that I’ll contract tuberculosis at some point in the near future.

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Popularity: 1% [?]

8:17 AM January 2, 2007: My first experience with the Charlottesville Transit System

There’s one other person at the bus stop when I arrive. Figuring I’ll probably see him each morning thereafter, I say hello. When he responds–ostensibly to return pleasantries–I struggle to understand him. He’s missing the better part of both rows of teeth, and the 24 oz Bud Light he’s drinking out of a paper bag is clearly not the morning’s first. Somehow, we continue talking; more accurately, he talks and I strain to listen. Catching me off guard, the man pats my back, rests his hand on my shoulder, and imparts the first of many bus stop pearls of wisdom: “Son, a woman is real sensitive … unless she’s a whore.”

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Popularity: 2% [?]