The other evening I went to the Cabaret Theatre on Douglass to see the Quaint Little Coffee Shop, a long-form improvisational group that, if you haven’t heard about as a Rutgers student, you’d better click on that link right away. “Hilarious” does not even begin to describe these guys. They act as one giant entity, seamlessly creating and ending scenes, one after another, before the audience. The English language is their plaything; they create solid characters out of lengthy monologues, which in turn spring up from one single word volunteered by the audience.

They’re really good.

At any rate, it was practically one in the morning by the time they finished, and I had neglected to move my car from its parking lot on Busch. Little did I know that the bus system had magically changed during my brief time in the theatre, so that I would have to endure two very long bus rides before I could get to my car. Not that it mattered; the story of the “feux hawk” echoed in my mind, so I continued to be entertained despite the mind-numbingly long journey ahead of me.

Not only had I forgotten to move my car, not only had I forgotten the bus system is near death after midnight, but I had also forgotten that it was Friday night and I was bound to run into partiers.

And so I did – mostly on the H bus, the second half of my trek to the car. The smell of alcohol was so permeating that I thought I might become drunk by osmosis and get pulled over on my way home. Perhaps the most entertaining couple of the night was comprised of these two dudes – and yes, the laws of grammar say that if you’re running into partiers on Friday night, you must refer to them as “dudes” – who clearly had vastly different levels of alcohol tolerance.

“Dude, you gotta be the boss of your girlfriend,” one was saying. “You gotta be the boss of her. Look at me, my girlfriend ain’t the boss of me. She’s the boss of you. You can’t have that. You gotta be the boss of her.” He had these phrases on infinite shuffle for the next fifteen minutes. Unfortunately, his intended audience didn’t seem terribly interested, instead choosing to turn pale and stare at his feet.

Most entertaining solo act of the night, however, certainly goes to this one dude who climbed into the bus and almost immediately asked, “Dude, what bus am I on?”

Now, I know you’re really not supposed to engage drunk people in conversation, but it had been a long bus ride and I was curious. So I responded it was the H bus.

“Aw thanks dude.  Dude!  What’s in the Pepsi bottle?”

I looked at the Pepsi bottle I was holding – something I’d picked up between bus rides to keep some caffeine in my bloodstream. “Pepsi,” I said truthfully.

“Dude, no way!” he exclaimed, as though this were the most unbelievable thing he’d ever heard. “Dude, why aren’t you out partying?”

I explained that I was a commuter and it’s not the most brilliant of ideas to drive home drunk. (Not that I drink in the first place, mind you, but I wasn’t going to go down that road with a drunk person.)

“Aw, wow, you’re a commuter? Well wait a minute, what are you doing on a bus?”

Other queries included: “Woah, where’s Colonia? Were you a football player? Did you ever fuck any teachers? You sure you weren’t a football player?”

This post is a warning to anyone who rides the busses past midnight, especially on Fridays: You might make new friends! Only they might not remember in the morning. And they can only communicate by speaking very, very loudly.

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