On the Bus

Literature is where you find it. And literary commentary is even closer at hand, in the rough and ready world that surrounds your local mass transit station. Take the following, composed on the side of the bus terminal in downton Oceantown, for example.You see, the composer, some sort of "gangster" (synonym: teenager who listens to rap) here in Oceantown, is calling out his "homies," the mentioned G-Unit, R-Dizzle, and P-Woods to antagonize the "bloods," "Crips," and "whatevers," as a show of dominance.
I'm not sure who the "bloods" are, but if these gangmembers are riding the bus, then, I think the "crips," an archaic term for disabled people (i.e. circa grade 2) may be the local invalids who talk loudly about how "Richard should shut up because he peed his pants at school today."
But the literary genius is not in the word choice of this poet, but rather in the words of the freelance critic, who we'll call Sharpie. His interpretation is clear to the westside gangsters: get a job. Simple. Harsh.Well informed. He knows they're not gangsters. He knows they're the kids that walk around downtown with long shirts on, bossing around the one girl who hangs out with them.
Brilliant.
Sharpie, whose identity is never clear, strikes again on another westside submission.

Again, Sharpie knows these children too well. Perhaps they have gone as far as stealing cassette tapes of rap-musicians from the local convenience store. They may even have stolen all the change from the armrest of my car last weekend. But that being said, Sharpie has them figured out. The only ride they have, despite having a uniformed chauffer, is owned and operated by the Oceantown Transit System. Thus, he adds in, "on the bus." And, perhaps they will ride the bus until they die. The bus service in Oceantown is more than adequate for petty criminals.

And, as a final "found literature" comment, we have a note left to me by my beloved paramour. During a discussion, I suggested that the "retarded people on the bus" might be a humourous post for the literary receptacle we have here. Here is her comment, written in pencil, on the back of a press release.
"You will not become W.P. Kinsella by writing about the mentally handicapped people talking on the bus. -B"
Perhaps, perhaps. But only time can tell. And I may still become Michael Crichton.