Rufus Rustus Johnson Brown / For An Eggman

Rufus Rustus Johnson Brown, what you gonna do when the rain comes down? What you gonna do and what you going to say when you can't pay the rent 'til the rain goes away? Coz I know and you know and everyone knows that you can't pay the rent if you ain't got the dough. Rufus Rustus Johnson Brown, what you gonna do when the rain falls down?

C, that's the way it begins and H, that's the next letter in, I, you're in the middle of the word, and C, you've already heard and K, now you're nearing the end, and E, now you're rounding the bend, C H I C K E N, that's the way you spell chick-en!
Such is the song we learned in elementary school.

And sang several times tonight, as we waited for the bus for TWO FUCKING HOURS.

The best part of our adventure: eggs.

Standing at the display of eggs, my roommate and I were discussing the merits of large eggs versus extra large eggs, when a dude comes up behind us. "Would you like some help from a real farmer?" Sure, dude. That's way cooler than help from a fake farmer. And he starts pulling out boxes of eggs, "See, this is how to tell a good egg." Okay, mister. And then he grabs a box, deems it "good" and starts picking out other boxes of eggs that are "good". I try to explain that we only need one box of eggs. "You know, those people that hold eggs up to the light? They don't know what the hell they're doing. That means nothing." And he goes on. And on. And on.

Finally, we get away from the eggman, with our box of eggs.

We go out to the mall, I buy a scratch ticket. I lose.

The rest of our night follows suit.

We go out to Huron and Highbury to wait for the Windermere.

And we wait. And we wait. And we wait.

For at least an hour, we wait.

We know this bus is running, or at least supposed to be, because the schedule is on the lamppost.

But yet, there is no bus.

Finally, we take the Huron Heights and elect to catch the Kipps up at Adelaide. But still, what a fucking pain in the ass.

Fucking busses.

I hate you, public transit.