Malky
04-08-2009, 04:46 AM
Guys check this out its a blog of a Glasgow bus driver who works at night and has to deal with all the freaks that come out. It is written in Glasgow slang but I'm sure you will cope.
Bluto Vs Pizza Bomber
It was late when I arrived a central station. Very late.
“One tae Clydebank!” shouted a middle aged buffoon, groping in his knapsack for change.
“Two pounds fifty,” I said, then choked in a sudden, uncontrollable gagging reflex. This guy was Bluto's doppelgänger, but had the overpowering stench of a thousand wank-soiled bed sheets. Like a living tribute to the Battle of the Somme, he was a necrotic salute to a million rotting corpses. A dead tramp in a wheelie bin would smell like sweet candy floss in comparison.
Several drunken loons tumbled and whooped on to the bus behind this nasal rapist with an assortment of “fucking hells” and “Jesus Christs” as the poisonous, fleshy bouquet assaulted them one by one. Unconcerned, Bluto rummaged further in his knapsack for change, then fixed me with a doubtful stare: “Here! Driver, is that you're handbag?” he said, and pointed to the leather handbag sitting beside my ticket machine.
“No, that's lost property,” I said, retching, holding a hand to my mouth, fighting hard not to puke. “Someone left it on the bus.”
“Nah, you nicked it aff some poor wee wumin! Didn't ye? Ha! Ha! What's in it?”
“Eh?” Spang! went my belly.
“What's in the handbag? Any cash?” he asked.
The handbag was none of his business, and I was about to tell him as much, but when your nostrils are being slammed by the horrid funk of an ogre's sweaty balls, your resolve quickly crumbles: “Uh? No, erm, no cash, just some plastic bags, a toilet roll and, um, a handful of incontinence pads.”
“Fucking hell! Incontinece pads?” spluttered Bluto, “Where wuz she sittin' so ah know not tae sit there! Ha! Ha! Ha!”
Oh, that was rich coming from offal boy! Besides, wearing a pad is nothing to be ashamed of these days. In fact, Stephen Hawking probably has a Pampers sponsorship. (Did you see him being thrown about in zero gravity? That just cracked me up. He didn't leak a drop either. I think Pampers missed a marketing trick there.)
Bluto plopped in his coins, threw his knapsack into the Metro bin and sat down right behind my cab. Arse! The remaining passengers staggered on to the bus. Each one blanched as they caught a whiff of Bluto's deathly essence. Interestingly, I could see Bluto's reflection in a side window and noted he was actually smiling.
We set off but only got as far as St. Vincent Street before an effeminate, pizza-munching Irishman wearing a pink shirt stood up and started shouting: “Hoi! Yooy! Fat boy doyn the front o' the boos! Is that yooy thot's fockin' stinkin'?”
Bluto merely cocked a mischievous eye at the ceiling and grinned. The bastard was actually enjoying this. Some people take pleasure in getting dressed up and re-enacting old battles, but this sad fucker was single-handedly re-enacting a Zyklon B cannister being flung into a “shower room” full of naked gypsies. Mein Fuhrer!
“Herrrre! Get yrself oaff tha fockin' boos ya' smelly coont!” shouted the Irishman. “Go and see a fockin' doctrrr!!” Other passengers cheered at this and gave him a loud round of applause. Inspired by their support, the Irishman continued with more hateful outbursts directed at Bluto: “Yer a fockin' mess! Get oaff the focking boos reyt noy, ya' fockn' steamroller!” he called, spitting pizza everywhere.
“Piss off, ya' tottie muncher!” called Bluto. “You shouldn'ae even be eatin' on the bus anyway!” Then to me: ”Driver! He's eatin' a fuckin' pizza on your bus! He shouldn'ae be doin' that! Get him aff the bus!”
I ignored him and pulled into a bus stop to pick up another intending passenger. But as the wary female stepped aboard, she paused due to the anarchy unfolding on my vehicle. “Driver, is it a happy bus or a fighting bus?” she asked.
“It was a happy bus, but any minute now it'll be a fighting bus,” I replied.
“Fighting bus? Right, think I'll just wait and get the next one,” she said and walked back off. I bet Bluto's howling death-honk played it's part in her decision too. Doors closed and off we went again.
This time only as far as Partick Interchange. Here, the camp Irishman stormed down the bus, still carrying his pizza box: “At least ey don't yooze fockin' shit fore soap!” he shouted right into Bluto's face. “Oh! Fock!” shouted the Irishman, quickly turning his face away and grimacing. “He's fockn' stinkn', so he is!”
“Get tae fuck, ya' poofy tottie muncher!” bellowed Bluto, getting to his feet.
Anticipating a fist fight, I opened the doors, hoping it might spill outside and off my bus. But, instead of a fight, the pink Irishman pointed to everyone on the bus one-by-one saying, “Good guy, good guy, good guy, good guy...” but when he finally got to Bluto he shouted “WANK!”
At this, Bluto ran up and hammered my anti-assault screen shouting, “Driver! He could have ANYTHING in that pizza box! He could have a BOMB in that pizza box! He's Irish! He's a fuckin' security breach! Are you gonna get the police?”
“Nope!” I said, staring at him like the genetic error that he was.
“Fuck it! I'll phone them myself!”
And he did!
Bomb in pizza box
Irish accent? Gotta have a bomb in his pizza box
He actually pulled out a mobile phone, typed in three nines and hit the call button. I heard a female voice answer the call, at which point Bluto shouted: “Hello, I'm on a bus in Partick! There's a BOMB in a pizza box! Send the police! There's an Irishman and he's got a BOMB in a pizza box!”
The passengers were in hysterics, as I'm sure was the dispatcher who took the call. She probably also heard the Irishman lead the rest of the bus passengers in a relentless chanting of “Off! Off! Off! Off! Off!” directed at Bluto.
“Just wait here, driver!” shouted Bluto.. “Don't go anywhere! Keep the bus here!”
The stinking fiend ordered me to wait at Partick Interchange for the police to arrive. He even stepped off the bus so he could hear the emergency services woman more clearly away from the passengers' incessant chanting.
Nah, piss off, stinky! I shut the doors on him and zoomed away round the corner, taking with me his manky knapsack that he had slung in the Metro bin earlier. A loud cheer went up from my drunken cargo. Thang' you very much. But it still took twenty minutes before his disgusting stench cleared.
Finally, alone at the terminus, I decided to have a wee look inside Bluto's knapsack before I handed it in at the depot.. Naturally, I was expecting to find dead animals, foot skin and lumps of cheddar. So, I was relieved only to find a ring-binder file and a disposable camera.
Time to play a trick on that stinky wee mank for nearly making me puke.
Bluto must have been a mature student or similar such lazy dosser because the papers in his ring-binder appeared to be hand written college notes about electronics. Time to make some additions to the curriculum.
I just opened his file at random places and slipped in an incontinence pad from the old lady's handbag. Hmmm, that chapter on Voltage Dividers looked a bit dull, so I included an incontinence pad for him to wire up. Likewise, the chapters on Capacitors and Diodes and so on, for about ten chapters in all.
You never know, it could spark an idea in his head that leads to a new form of energy. So, if your next mobile phone is powered by two AA sized fanny-pads you'll have me to thank.
www.bloodbus.com
Bluto Vs Pizza Bomber
It was late when I arrived a central station. Very late.
“One tae Clydebank!” shouted a middle aged buffoon, groping in his knapsack for change.
“Two pounds fifty,” I said, then choked in a sudden, uncontrollable gagging reflex. This guy was Bluto's doppelgänger, but had the overpowering stench of a thousand wank-soiled bed sheets. Like a living tribute to the Battle of the Somme, he was a necrotic salute to a million rotting corpses. A dead tramp in a wheelie bin would smell like sweet candy floss in comparison.
Several drunken loons tumbled and whooped on to the bus behind this nasal rapist with an assortment of “fucking hells” and “Jesus Christs” as the poisonous, fleshy bouquet assaulted them one by one. Unconcerned, Bluto rummaged further in his knapsack for change, then fixed me with a doubtful stare: “Here! Driver, is that you're handbag?” he said, and pointed to the leather handbag sitting beside my ticket machine.
“No, that's lost property,” I said, retching, holding a hand to my mouth, fighting hard not to puke. “Someone left it on the bus.”
“Nah, you nicked it aff some poor wee wumin! Didn't ye? Ha! Ha! What's in it?”
“Eh?” Spang! went my belly.
“What's in the handbag? Any cash?” he asked.
The handbag was none of his business, and I was about to tell him as much, but when your nostrils are being slammed by the horrid funk of an ogre's sweaty balls, your resolve quickly crumbles: “Uh? No, erm, no cash, just some plastic bags, a toilet roll and, um, a handful of incontinence pads.”
“Fucking hell! Incontinece pads?” spluttered Bluto, “Where wuz she sittin' so ah know not tae sit there! Ha! Ha! Ha!”
Oh, that was rich coming from offal boy! Besides, wearing a pad is nothing to be ashamed of these days. In fact, Stephen Hawking probably has a Pampers sponsorship. (Did you see him being thrown about in zero gravity? That just cracked me up. He didn't leak a drop either. I think Pampers missed a marketing trick there.)
Bluto plopped in his coins, threw his knapsack into the Metro bin and sat down right behind my cab. Arse! The remaining passengers staggered on to the bus. Each one blanched as they caught a whiff of Bluto's deathly essence. Interestingly, I could see Bluto's reflection in a side window and noted he was actually smiling.
We set off but only got as far as St. Vincent Street before an effeminate, pizza-munching Irishman wearing a pink shirt stood up and started shouting: “Hoi! Yooy! Fat boy doyn the front o' the boos! Is that yooy thot's fockin' stinkin'?”
Bluto merely cocked a mischievous eye at the ceiling and grinned. The bastard was actually enjoying this. Some people take pleasure in getting dressed up and re-enacting old battles, but this sad fucker was single-handedly re-enacting a Zyklon B cannister being flung into a “shower room” full of naked gypsies. Mein Fuhrer!
“Herrrre! Get yrself oaff tha fockin' boos ya' smelly coont!” shouted the Irishman. “Go and see a fockin' doctrrr!!” Other passengers cheered at this and gave him a loud round of applause. Inspired by their support, the Irishman continued with more hateful outbursts directed at Bluto: “Yer a fockin' mess! Get oaff the focking boos reyt noy, ya' fockn' steamroller!” he called, spitting pizza everywhere.
“Piss off, ya' tottie muncher!” called Bluto. “You shouldn'ae even be eatin' on the bus anyway!” Then to me: ”Driver! He's eatin' a fuckin' pizza on your bus! He shouldn'ae be doin' that! Get him aff the bus!”
I ignored him and pulled into a bus stop to pick up another intending passenger. But as the wary female stepped aboard, she paused due to the anarchy unfolding on my vehicle. “Driver, is it a happy bus or a fighting bus?” she asked.
“It was a happy bus, but any minute now it'll be a fighting bus,” I replied.
“Fighting bus? Right, think I'll just wait and get the next one,” she said and walked back off. I bet Bluto's howling death-honk played it's part in her decision too. Doors closed and off we went again.
This time only as far as Partick Interchange. Here, the camp Irishman stormed down the bus, still carrying his pizza box: “At least ey don't yooze fockin' shit fore soap!” he shouted right into Bluto's face. “Oh! Fock!” shouted the Irishman, quickly turning his face away and grimacing. “He's fockn' stinkn', so he is!”
“Get tae fuck, ya' poofy tottie muncher!” bellowed Bluto, getting to his feet.
Anticipating a fist fight, I opened the doors, hoping it might spill outside and off my bus. But, instead of a fight, the pink Irishman pointed to everyone on the bus one-by-one saying, “Good guy, good guy, good guy, good guy...” but when he finally got to Bluto he shouted “WANK!”
At this, Bluto ran up and hammered my anti-assault screen shouting, “Driver! He could have ANYTHING in that pizza box! He could have a BOMB in that pizza box! He's Irish! He's a fuckin' security breach! Are you gonna get the police?”
“Nope!” I said, staring at him like the genetic error that he was.
“Fuck it! I'll phone them myself!”
And he did!
Bomb in pizza box
Irish accent? Gotta have a bomb in his pizza box
He actually pulled out a mobile phone, typed in three nines and hit the call button. I heard a female voice answer the call, at which point Bluto shouted: “Hello, I'm on a bus in Partick! There's a BOMB in a pizza box! Send the police! There's an Irishman and he's got a BOMB in a pizza box!”
The passengers were in hysterics, as I'm sure was the dispatcher who took the call. She probably also heard the Irishman lead the rest of the bus passengers in a relentless chanting of “Off! Off! Off! Off! Off!” directed at Bluto.
“Just wait here, driver!” shouted Bluto.. “Don't go anywhere! Keep the bus here!”
The stinking fiend ordered me to wait at Partick Interchange for the police to arrive. He even stepped off the bus so he could hear the emergency services woman more clearly away from the passengers' incessant chanting.
Nah, piss off, stinky! I shut the doors on him and zoomed away round the corner, taking with me his manky knapsack that he had slung in the Metro bin earlier. A loud cheer went up from my drunken cargo. Thang' you very much. But it still took twenty minutes before his disgusting stench cleared.
Finally, alone at the terminus, I decided to have a wee look inside Bluto's knapsack before I handed it in at the depot.. Naturally, I was expecting to find dead animals, foot skin and lumps of cheddar. So, I was relieved only to find a ring-binder file and a disposable camera.
Time to play a trick on that stinky wee mank for nearly making me puke.
Bluto must have been a mature student or similar such lazy dosser because the papers in his ring-binder appeared to be hand written college notes about electronics. Time to make some additions to the curriculum.
I just opened his file at random places and slipped in an incontinence pad from the old lady's handbag. Hmmm, that chapter on Voltage Dividers looked a bit dull, so I included an incontinence pad for him to wire up. Likewise, the chapters on Capacitors and Diodes and so on, for about ten chapters in all.
You never know, it could spark an idea in his head that leads to a new form of energy. So, if your next mobile phone is powered by two AA sized fanny-pads you'll have me to thank.
www.bloodbus.com