I take a short bus ride about once or twice a day. (It’s the ride that is short.) I know that cell phone etiquette is one of the casualties of our narcissistic culture. Still, I wonder what would happen if I tried to fight uncouthness with uncouthness by pretending that the offender of such etiquette is talking to me:
Fellow Passenger: Where you at?
Me: I’m on the bus, sitting across from you. And it’s “where are you at?”
FP gives me an odd look, failing to thank me for correcting his grammatical oversight.
FP: I’m just on my way up North Avenue. Gonna’ get me somethin’ to eat, then go see my boy Walt.
Me: My buddy Dave and I were up in that area once, and, get thi–
FP: Do you mind? I’m trying to conversate here.
Me: No, go ahead. I just like having a nice talk with strangers. People on the bus don’t usually talk to me.
FP: This bitch here is tryin’ to be cute. All interrupting me and shit.
Me: That bitch is rude.
Raising my voice,
Me: Excuse me! We’re trying to talk here. Could you guys please keep it down?
FP: Let me holler at you later, my man. I’m gonna’ bust this motherfucker’s head open.
Me: Ooh. Who is it? Is it that guy wit–
And on again.
Me: What hospital I at?