They, survivors of many bus rides, seasoned pro’s, know the rules, so the process begins with the first victim who is in the early stages of “Oh crap, I gotta crap”, which doesn’t mean they necessarily have to actually engage in No. 2, as we used to call it, but it does mean that some kind of potty break is swelling up, deep within, brewing, and a ‘rest stop’ is soon going to be needed. Now, when traveling in packs of 40 on a moving bus, the rule of thumb used to be, there is ‘safety in numbers’, meaning, somebody will have to go worse than I do, so ‘they’ will have to approach the kind and loving youth pastor/bus driver, who because he loves Jesus and God’s people, will promptly pull over at the nearest convenient ‘rest stop’ so that ‘resting’ can take place. Things have changed…

Rule change #1: The bus never makes unplanned stops of any kind.

Apparently, all bus riders, except for the old pastor who didn’t show up for the ‘informational meeting’, have been warned of Rule #1, thereby enabling them to plan accordingly; unless you are the poor slob whose body refuses to work with the schedule, rendering you the ‘safety in numbers’ victim, who must approach the bus driver, the loving youth pastor who created the rule in the first place, and beg for mercy, which would mandate breaking Rule #1, thereby, ain’t gonna happen. So the victim, having seen this process before, simply asks, “How long before the next stop?”, code for “Oh crap, I gotta crap”. I saw the look of despair as the victim slowly turned to walk back to his seat with that, “Please God, help me” look on his face, praying for the first time in many a day…

Just a few minutes later, prayer for miraculous intervention denied, the ‘safety in numbers’ victim approached the loving bus driver and whispered, “I gotta go now!” and with that the bus pulled over to the side of the road and the mob of sleeping mutants suddenly awoke, knowing what was coming, another episode of “Run, Forest, Run!” The windows of the bus slid open in unison as the bus came to a crawl and the ‘safety in numbers’ victim sprinted out the now open door praying that God would let him hold ‘it’ till he stopped running. The remaining mutants on the bus, smelling the kill, began to clap and cheer, screaming out the window, “Run, Forest, Run!”. And the bus rolled on…

Rule change #2: Run, Forest, Run!!!!!!!

The tree line some 50 yards away seemed to fade into the distance with every step he ran as the bus rolled on… The mutants, squeezed into the window seats, now in full frenzy, soaking up every moment of the ‘safety in numbers’ victim’s turmoil, as he ran for the woods, the bus slowly rolling away. Just about the time I was ready to panic, ready to intervene for this poor mutant child, trying to relieve himself as the bus rolled away, out he popped from the tree line, pulling up the dreaded zipper as he came flying across the field, tracking down the bus that hold rolled on without him. The mob of mutants roared even louder as the ‘safety in numbers’ victim approached the bus, “Run, Forest, Run!”. Upon entering the bus, now in full sweat and panting, the mutants exploded into high praise, high fiving him, and each other, like he had just won the gold medal, rather than getting rid of it. Caught up in the moment of exaltation, even I cheered and high-fived the returning cross-country runner, embarrassed that even I had enjoyed his pain, reverting to ‘mutant status’ after less than a day of hanging out with the teenagers. Who knew my latent ‘youthful maleness’ was lurking so close to the surface as I yelled with the other mutants, “AWESOME!”

Rule change #3: Senior Pastor renders all previous rules meaningless.

When the first pangs of cheap pizza and soda began to roll through my intestines as we headed home after a day of youth pastoring, my mind screamed, “Oh crap, I gotta crap”, meaning #2, as we used to call it, and this wasn’t going to be pretty. The ‘bad place’ would freeze over before I was going to sprint across an open field and look for a bush while the bus rolled on full of screaming mutants addressing me in their “Run, Forest, Run!” joy induced hysteria. I am way to dignified for that little adventure. I leaned over to the loving bus driver/youth pastor and said, “Pull over, now, and this bus better not move 3 inches till I get back, or you will need a new job.” I stood up announcing, “Unscheduled Dairy Queen Break!”, and the mutants roared with approval as we pulled into the Dairy Queen. The mutants screamed with delight “Pastor Rocks!!!!!!!”

Yes, the youth pastor still works at NewportNaz… And yes, the Shewolf lectured me on the inappropriateness of this little tale. Gee, wonder how long she has been out of youth ministry...?

The Shewolf and I were heading out of town, and I really can’t blame this one on the Shewolf, because we were within sight of the Starbucks, and she, in the early stages of the ticking that proceeds the transformation, just slightly agitated, told me I had plenty of time, meaning at least 5 minutes, before innocents get hurt, the innocents of course, meaning me. Still, one can’t be too careful with these things so I was in a bit of a hurry when I saw him out of the corner of my eye, because “I’m a very good driver” with great peripheral vision. He was just to the right of the Shewolf, perhaps 100 feet away, slowing down, waiting to see if I was going to pull out into traffic or if he would have to slow down, maybe even stop, before riding his bike across the road I was on. I, too, was hoping he wouldn’t need to change course, so the pressure was building as his bike rolled toward us. But, “I’m a very good driver” so I looked ever so carefully and quickly analyzed with lightening precision, because “I’m a very good driver”, that the summer traffic in Newport was just not going to let me join the flow of traffic headed to Starbucks. Clearly their passengers were closer to the transformation than the Shewolf was, hence their speed was too great to chance a pullout.

But, because “I’m a very good driver” and a nice one at that, I decided it wasn’t fair to make him slow down or stop, so because “I’m a very good driver” I decided to put my ancient Benz in reverse to make room for the oncoming bike rider. Nonetheless, his speed was faster than I thought, so I had to move quickly, which was no problem, because “I’m a very good driver”. So into reverse I went, and quickly so, because “I’m a very good driver”.

Now the driver of the car behind me clearly did not listen to his dad’s driving instructions, “Always anticipate what the other driver is going to do”, hence, he cannot say, “I’m a very good driver”, because he did not anticipate that I would slam my Benz into reverse and drive right back into him, clearly disqualifying him from ‘very good driver’ status. Nonetheless, because “I’m a very good driver” I looked in the review mirror to see what and who I had hit, because good drivers do not turn around to see what is behind them, they always use their mirrors, which I would have done earlier, except that I had no time to look backwards if I was going to allow the bike rider to cross without stopping, because “I’m a very good driver”.

Upon impact, the driver behind me, who clearly is ‘not a very good driver’ for reasons started above, made eye contact with me, raising his hands and making that look of exasperation that reflected his guilt for not anticipating what I was going to do because “I’m a very good driver” and wanted to accommodate the bike rider. The Shewolf meanwhile, now starting to transform, sped up by the thought of a delay in getting her latte, proclaimed “Great”, and because “I’m a very good driver” I knew the safe thing to do was get out quickly before the transformation kicked in, taking the locking key with me, locking the doors, knowing that once the transformation starts, she will not have her wits about her to unlock the door, thereby keeping me and the ‘not so good driver’ that I backed into, safe.

Now, as best I can figure, the ‘not a very good driver’ saw what was beginning to happen in the car as the Shewolf went into full-fledged transformation, squeezing her head out of the sunroof window of the Benz that I absent-mindfully left cracked open, just enough to tempt her. Thankfully, the fancy key I have allowed me to power it closed just as her shoulders were ready to break loose. He quickly and nervously proclaimed, “My car has been hit so many times one more dent won’t make a difference, and quickly drove off” before I could even get his insurance information. Either the Shewolf worked some magic, or he knew he should have anticipated my quick reversal into his car. The bike rider too, never even slowed down, I think, because he saw the early stage transformation taking place as the Shewolf was in the early stages of clawing at the sunroof window when he finally arrived at the car. As for me, because “I’m a very good driver”, I know better than to enter a vehicle when the Shewolf has transformed, even if her head is stuck half-way out the sunroof. I walked across the street, got the latte, and fed it to her with a straw through window. Thankfully, she transforms back quickly… We drove to Bend with no further incidence, because, as you know, “I’m a very good driver”.

will not be able to sue when chaos befalls us. But the signs were so stupidly obvious, and clearly for idiots who would not have read them in the first place, they have stopped using them, which means that my lawsuit has a chance, even though only an idiot, who would have ignored it, would need the sign in the first place. I needed the sign. We were part of the mob exiting the plane, making our way to the exit of the airport, now located just 7 short miles away, via 2 trains, one bus, 7 people movers, and alkways filled with grumpy old people being scooted along on golf carts driven by Nazi commandoes determined to get grandma to her plane regardless of who might be maimed along the way, after all there was tip money at stake.

Hence, the mob was in no mood for cheapskates like me, too cheap to rent a rolling luggage carrier, determined to roll two carry-on luggage pieces that have been banned from every known airline in the world, because the Shewolf has so jammed them with ‘essentials of every color known to man’ that they literally look pregnant, if luggage could get pregnant, which clearly they can. The sweat was soaking into the brim of my ball-cap by the time we approached the next item in the gauntlet, and the mob had no intention of letting me retreat, pregnant luggage or not, so like it or not, pregnant luggage and I began our ascent. The Shewolf, sensing my exhaustion, offered to take one of the pregnant suitcases, but I was in no mood to be emasculated by turning over one of my now 200 pound pregnant suitcases to the tiny Shewolf who would have undoubtedly glided onto the escalator, having been spared the trauma of dragging her 400 pounds of pregnant suitcases over the first 6 miles of the obstacle course to exit the airport. And besides, the mob never tolerate luggage dancing at the foot of the escalator by the cheapskates who hadn’t picked up a rolling luggage carrier in the first place. Having done this before, I jump onto the moving stair with all the agility and grace of a pro pregnant suitcase handler. Even I was impressed, and the crowd moaned with approval and wonder as I navigated my backpack and pregnant suitcases onto the ride.

I was just settling in for the long ascent when the chaos unfolded. I still don’t know what really happened, but the Shewolf swears she had nothing to do with it, other than ‘saving my life’ and countless other dominos riding behind her. The pregnant suitcases offered those wonderful extended handles that let you reach back and roll them behind you, and that is exactly what I had done, as I proudly stood with my arms extended backward, clinging to the pregnant suitcases, just one step below me. You would have
thought the suitcases had gone into labor by the way they started to pull me backwards. Startled, I turned my head to see what the Shewolf was up to when the pull became so intense I found myself falling backwards into the mob. With every inch the escalator moved upward, the pregnant suitcases refused to move, literally trying to rip themselves from my hands as I started my backward swan dive. Smarter than the average non-sign reader, I let go of the pregnant suitcase in my right hand, which was now falling back down the escalator slamming into the Shewolf, who tragically had already had her two Starbucks Lattes for the day and was unable to transform herself into that horribly powerful creature who would have swatted the 200 pound pregnant suitcase over the edge, saving me a multitude of embarrassment. Instead, she caught the pregnant suitcase, and began her own backward descend, only to be caught by superman, some freak of nature in a business suit who caught her and her pregnant suitcase,
with only the slightest gasp of effort. The Shewolf marveled at the handsome stranger who held her, and her overweight pregnant suitcase, in one arm while gracefully moving up the escalator to rescue the idiot nonsign reader who was now laying upside down and backwards, still clinging to his pregnant suitcase and hanging onto the black handrail as it blistered his hand trying to drag he and his pregnant luggage to the top.

The crowd roared with approval at superman who had just saved them all from a 10-minute delay while they cleaned up the mess from the idiot nonsign reader who had been shredded by those imposing teeth that eat anything as the stairs descend back into the escalator never land.

Meanwhile, non-superman, just moments away from saving himself, now laying backwards and upside down, still clinging with his right hand to the 500 pound, in labor, pregnant suitcase, grimaced as superman picked he and his pregnant suitcase up and had us all ready to hop off just moments before the escalator ride from hell came to an end.

As I grimaced and tried to compose myself, now free from the unnecessary saving hand of superman, the mob moved by with that look, the one that politely says, “idiot!”. Yeah well, we’ll see who is the real idiot after I get my settlement from the lawsuit because they didn’t have the idiot sign up because only an idiot would need the sign in the first place. Did I mention, I needed the sign…

It was the smell that tipped me off. It was hidden, so to speak, with all the other odors, camouflaged under the years of general stink that inevitably gather after 30 years of abuse. It looks so beautiful at first, and gives your home that ‘new car’ scent, that really is disgusting, but your brain translates it as new, so you assign that ‘it must be good’ logo in your mind, and away you go. But, right from the start, the abuse starts. And it never stops, until the day you send in the surgical team, to finally remove it because the abuse has finally sucked the life right out of it, and pounded the stink right in. The team, accustomed to the stink of death, rarely wears the surgeon’s outfit. But for amateurs like me, the stench is just too much to bear, and on goes the outfit, an outfit that will do little to protect you, but at least you feel better.

To be fair, it’s not usually the people who generate most of the stench; rather, it is their beloved animals, who smell the foam underneath it, and just can’t resist the call of the wild. They’re sneaky in fulfilling their lust of the flesh. It starts with the rolling across the top, merging their fur oils all over the top, or scooting across for that perfect butt scratch and wipe, or the occasional vomit, only to be consumed moments later. And then we walk on it, spill on it, vacuum it, sit on it, play with the kids on it, and the list goes on, and on, and on… But at some point, even the steam clean no longer persuades us its clean, a lie we tell ourselves over and over again, and the decision is made, it has to go…

And so the surgery begins… The first cut is always the worst as years of stink, locked underneath, go screaming into the fresh air. And with the stink, comes the first signs of what really goes on underneath the surface of clean, that never really is. The backside of the carpet shows the real abuse. Stain after stain, spanning the expanse of the room. Each one pointing to an accident of some kind, forgotten as the years roll by. But worst of all, is the urine, the years of urine, that cats and dogs of all kinds, deposit as they carry on the game of ‘marking their territory’ or just getting old.

And beautiful wood floors, covered up in the ever present call to be included in the ‘what’s happening now’ movement, bare the brunt of the abuse. The urine eats away the finish, bleaches out the stain, and eventually attacks the tough fibers of the hardwood. And so the sander is called in, to sand away the crud, down to the beautiful wood, stain reapplied, sealer and wax laced across the top, floors restored to their original beauty…

Kind of sounds like what happens just under the surface for most of us… Peel away the surface layer and it is amazing what is brewing underneath. Time to call in the surgeon… He will not wear a mask or gloves; He has seen it all before. But He will bring his sander… Hold on tight, this could hurt a bit…