Dr. H and I were walking up 8th Avenue, chatting about the high and low points of "The Hangover Part II," which we had just seen. As we crossed 42nd Street, a bus shot in front of us. It had made a reckless left turn and almost plowed through a crowd of people. "HEY! WHAT THE FUCK?!?!?" I yelled.
"What are you fucking doing?" screamed the guy next to me.
All five of the people who were nearly mowed down made similar comments. The bus driver never even looked at us. It was scary.
As he sped west on 42nd, I made a mental note of the phone number written on the back door. (It's 201.945.0556, in case anyone is interested.) Once I was safely on the sidewalk, I fished out my phone and tried calling the bus company to complain about their lunatic employee, but - shocking! - no one answered. Dr. H and I discussed how upsetting it was to nearly be run over and how little the driver cared.
A block later, I noticed two cops standing on the sidewalk.
"Maybe I should mention it to them," I said to Dr. H.
"What good would that do?" she replied.
"None, but I want to anyway." I thought I would feel better if I vented. And these happened to be super cute po-po. I felt that it might soothe my raw nerves to chat up some nice looking dudes. As expected, there was nothing they could do, but they weren't surprised. They knew exactly what I meant.
When we walked away from the cops, Dr. H and I chatted about how hot they were. It made us giggle a lot and feel better.
Sad, I know.