Nigga Please and Other (Guilty) Pleasures

We all have our little naughty bits -aside from the ones in our pants, of course- that make us smile, laugh or just move the day along at a not so I-wanna-punch-everyone-in-the-face sort of  pace.  I usually try to find something funny every day, but some days, like yesterday, the funny finds me. And where else would hilarity ensue but the Number 5 bus to Northgate? Nowhere, that’s where. I was doing alright for myself; had a seat next to a lovely Chinese lady who was reading quietly to herself and it wasn’t too crowded. The guy across the aisle from me, we’ll call him Steve, was looking around with a faint smile. I noticed the driver was a bit cranky as he picked up a guy at the next stop who made the mistake of asking a question and having a bike to affix to the front. But, you know, bus drivers in Seattle work really hard and everyone has a bad day, so I gave him the benefit of the doubt and resumed staring out the window listening to Spoon.

The next stop was 6th and Denny Way. We picked up a guy who seemed rather in a hurry to get to the back of the bus. We’ll call him Dude for the sake of this story. As Dude shuffled his way to the back looking like Keanu Reeves, Steve stood up, chest-bumped him aggressively and said, “what up, bitch?” In the same situation I could not promise to be as calm as Dude was when he inquired, “Dude, really, dude?” Steve moved aside and gushed, “Dude, you look just like Jeremy. Spitting image, dude.” Dude made his way to the back of the bus and said, “well this Jeremy dude must be pretty handsome.”

“Actually, he looks like a douche.”

At this, I burst out laughing. Loudly. I jostled the nice lady beside me and made her lose her place in her book. Even as I did so, I felt awkward about it. I tried not to make eye contact with Steve because I didn’t want him thinking he was right. I wanted him knowing. After all, Dude was the victim of this tussle, but Dude did look like a douche.

“A douche bag,” clarified Steve.

Poor Dude was rendered speechless, he said nothing the rest of the trip. Dude’s silence gave Steve leeway to talk over the eight people ahead of him at the bus driver who really didn’t want to be involved. The bus made its way up Fremont Avenue. When Steve asked if the Buckaroo was really closed forever, the driver answered, “the last night was Friday, where the fuck were you?”

*****

In the off-chance a day goes by without a notable funny, I like to employ my personal favorite: an unsuspecting Nigga, Please. Extra points for saying it to a white female. Cracks me up every time.

But yesterday definitely wasn’t a Nigga Please Monday. Not only did I have the preambulary raucous laughter on the bus, I later found myself at the Shipwreck Tavern where the Uh-Oh Dudes host a comedy night of epic (and by epic I mean free) proportion. In fact this comedy night and Alki Beach are the only reasons to go to West Seattle. They’re a wild bunch and I’m sure no matter what your giggly guilty pleasure is, they’ve got it. Especially if you get a good belly laugh out of rape jokes.

I know I do.

Hahaha, Nigga, Please

To the Uptight Seattleite

Seattle trolley bus

King County Metro

It seems we’re coming upon my Seattleversary very soon. I’ve given directions to Pike’s Market, inhaled coffee, worn plaid, discussed Chihuly and recycled enough to call myself a Seattleite, but it wasn’t until today that I officially became uptight. I was on the bus heading downtown, as usual, only lately my route has gotten crowded. I mean, that’s okay. I’m all about squeezing in next to the jagged haircut sporting art student hipster with the tiny dog and the guy in the webbed toe shoes who wants to tell me all about them. I don’t mind my forehead occasionally getting to know the elbow of the blonde on the cell phone talking about nothing. She’s cool. She’s on her path, living her life, not bothering me at all. What makes me uptight are the stone cold downward glances from the people in front of me who seem to be expecting me to move back into the bendy zone where there are no hand rails for someone, say, five feet tall. They can clearly look over my head and see that the back-back is full. I know they can because they do. They look over my head forlornly, like a herd of giraffes that needs nothing more than to get past me. They’ve just got to have that bendy zone. So, I move aside and the herd moves back quickly. Leaving the one without a means to find their bearings. Realizing the lack of handrail, they try to backtrack to their surrendered spot only to have that dream shattered. Now, we’re sharing a pole. Their arm above my head. Sure, I could look on the bright side, I now have a working knowledge of every deodorant on the market, but that wouldn’t be very Seattle of me.

Sincerely,

A (Newly) Uptight Seattleite

P.S. Swore I saw you on Phinney Ridge last weekend. Looking fit.