Boston Bound

After handing over the keys to my apartment to Bob so she can take care of my mini-zoo (tiny little Phish, wee Larry Bird and the sweetest, smartest petite girl with the big name: Paquita Borgito Borgato Chorizo Jimenez), I met Christian for our mini-vacation to Boston.

It took us four subway transfers to get down to Grand Street in Chinatown, where we paid $10 to board a bus and entrust our precious mini-lives with the mini-driver for four and a half hours. The cynic in me kept waiting for the bus to fill with women carrying live chickens and lots of filthy crying babies. Instead we were surrounded by a mish-mash of people that were, for the most part, like us: bargain-hunters looking for a cheap ride.

Aside from the queeny black guy who dropped the “F” bomb every other word while dripping sweat all over the seats as he searched for his ticket he seemed to have misplaced during the 25 feet trip from the ticket booth and his bus seat and the overweight Asian women who ate a full platter of the smelliest Chinese food in her seat before the bus (and, therefore, ventilation) was turned on, the passengers and the trip was smooth sailing and comfortable.

Highlights included:

Mad Libs littered with such classics as:
“Ballet companies are springing up like the Chinese;”
“My hobby is collecting boobies”;
“Remember, the baby gets his warm he sauce around six o’clock”; and . . .

a telephone conversation in which Christian’s dad asked for the definition of camel toe.
I think I’m going to enjoy this trip.