To the slathering cow who puked on me on the #43 bus: From the moment I got on the bus, I had to listen to your incessant moaning. I honestly thought you were masturbating for a moment there. Your daughter(?) asked you to get off the bus a number of stops in a row. You refused. Something to do with your bicycles secured to the front of the bus. When she finally convinced your foul ass to get off of the bus, you turned to me, then covered your mouth with that "Oh, god, I'm going to puke" look plastered all over your face. Next thing I know your sick-spray coated me from head to toe. Then you just stood there, looking like you might do it again. I hope you were actually sick (for your sake, not mine). If you're just one of those heifers who, at the first nudge of physical exertion, becomes physically ill (your bicycling?), then do the world a favor and lay off the carbs or just die. I fully realize you were a tad preoccupied, but you could have at least apologized as I stood there, dripping with your spew, you nasty, portly, sowish, reeking waste of air.—Anonymous
Spray You Later
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