THE SAD THING IS THIS IS TRUE

Being the non-driving schmuck I am, I’ve done my time in Greyhound bus stations. I’ve been through all the refueling delays and the missed bus connections. Oh, and I know all about those crafty little shits and their anti-privacy urinals. I’d tell the guy next to me to keep his eyes on his own side, except (holy salami!) there isn’t anything for him to be on the other side of. Despite all my flowery experiences with the oversized short bus factory, I never thought I’d be privy to divine wisdom in one of their terminals. I was sitting on the floor of this glorified bus stop in Cleveland, when I noticed the woman in front of me pacing around her luggage. She was short, round and wearing some sort of tribal thrift-shop-pirate garb. What's more, the clam-bearing Bluebeard kept muttering out loud to no one in particular. Lucky me (being the closest person to her), I had this working class schizo all to myself. I made like Spytech and tried to listen in on what she was spouting without being noticed. Then, amidst a barrage of furtive glances, I hit pay-dirt. “You can’t eat in Nashville unless you suck chicken bones!” Her words came down like a sermon from upon high. I call it genius because it involved chicken. I call it miraculous because she didn’t pee on me right after she said it.