Nah’msayin?

Death-Hound

  • shoshana eidelman

Forgive me if I’m pointing out the obvious, but the people who run Greyhound need to spend an eternity burning in hellfire while birds poke out their eyes and New York subway rats gnaw on their feet.
That may sound a bit harsh, but it would be a better fate than having to ride one of their buses.

Frankly, if the laws about this kind of thing weren’t so damn strict I would have chucked quite a few infants out a bus window by now. Enjoy Interstate 93, baby!

To be fair to them, which is more than they deserve, I suppose Greyhound can’t do much about that for the same reasons I can’t, but don’t worry—I can give you a slew of other reasons why the company sucks.

Take, for instance, the fact that their express buses take hours longer to reach their intended destination than your half-blind grandmother driving a furious 25 klicks per hour the whole way.

It’s also their fault that the buses consistently smell of some sort of urine-blood-vomit-death milkshake. Seriously, even the Port-a-Potties at Osheaga smell better than a Greyhound.

But it’s not until you enjoy one of their rest stops, particularly the lovely crack-den that is the Greyhound station in Albany, that you really feel your hatred for the company begin to fester.

It’s as if they paid Eli Roth to design, build and cast the extras for the place and then said, “Nah, sorry. It just isn’t quite as horrific as we wanted,” and turned control of the project over to Eli Roth’s evil twin.

Sorry, Greyhound, but I’ll be walking out of this city from now on. After all, it’ll probably take me just as long to get where I want to go.

—Julia Wolfe
Managing Editor

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