Warning: the following post contains

Warning: the following post contains naughty words. If words or phrases like “fuck”, “shit”, “cockbite”, “sonofabitch”, or “crack whore on a trolley” make you apoplectic or otherwise swivel your shorts, stop reading immediately. Thank you.

From time to time as I’m waiting for my bus connection home, I’ll run into this delightful couple that, for purposes of anonymity and because I don’t know their names, we’ll call the Fuckbuckets. Mr. Fuckbucket looks like a K-Mart version of John Lithgow (if there could be such a thing), and his wife is Kathy Bates toward the end of Misery. They are somewhere in their mid-fifties, and they are pissed. About everything.

When they shuffle up to the stop, generally Mr. F is muttering something about how it took an hour to get here and now they have to wait some more. For a bus that’s on time. Mr. F likes to puncuate with the words “fuck” and “sonofabitch”. Mrs. F prefers liberal use of the word “shit”. I have never, ever seen these two when they weren’t angry and muttering curses. On my total-stranger-entertainment-value scale, they rate about a six. A seven if I get the chance to elbow in front of them while boarding the bus. It would be funnier if it weren’t sad. Ya know, I can get angry with the best of them. But most of the time, life is good. I can’t help but look at the Fuckbuckets, and think about how much it must suck to be them. But what do I know. Maybe they have incredible sex.

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