There's Nothing In The Purse! DON'T ASK!!!

I was going to write a romantic piece about the recent divorce from my Nissan Rogue, recounting all the memorable drives I had over the last few years and pull out some sentimental slop that turns most mothers mushy. But then I thought, you don't want to hear about my car. You want to hear about the time I sat on a bus next to a giant unconscious nose ring who was biting her lower lip in the middle of a dream about date raping a chicken.

Yeah, that will keep you more entertained than some ode over the last 103,675 miles I have logged with my ex-wife.

For full effect, download "Bus Stop" by The Hollies and play at maximum volume throughout the duration of this post.

Currently, it's just after 1:38 in the morning and I'm somewhere in between Primm, Nevada, and Barstow, California. On a bus. Next to a sleeping nose ring. On guard so I also don't become a date raped chicken. I've done some crazy things in my life, everyone knows that. But this, this just might rank as one of the all-time nuttiest. Rather than bore you with the details of a wasted backstory, here are 24 words that explain how I got to this point over the last 24 hours: Sold my car on impulse, researched a California dealer, had a friend bail as my taxi, and hitchhiked my way on to a Greyhound. Go ahead, count them up. I know you don't believe me.

Now, back to the nose ring in the middle of the California desert.

I have ridden the Greyhound bus plenty of times. As a kid. Heck, this dump hole on wheels that smells like fermented urine used to be my personal chauffeur from SG to SLC when I was in college and experimenting with EEG's and psychoanalytic brain testing for epilepsy. Back then I used to fit on this mess of a vehicle. Back then I didn't have a semi-broken coccyx and had a hard time fitting into three cubic feet of space. But that was five years ago. This is now. Things are different. I'm a man. I file my own taxes. I have my own dental plan. I have no reason to be nervous, right?

Oh and for the record, might I add that I'm holding $20,128 in unmarked bills in a man purse, yes a man purse, forgot to add that little trinket in there.

Homeless man/potential drug addict at the bus station: "Hey man, you got a dollar?"

Me: "Not on me, sorry."

What? Is honesty REALLY the best policy in EVERY situation? I can't pull out a rubber banned stack of Ben Franklins and look to get change so this fella can get his fix and expect to make it ten more steps down the road fully conscious. I feel like Marshall Erickson in that one HIMYM episode that you never saw where he walked around Manhattan fearing that he was going to get date raped like a chicken by the public while holding on to $18,000 in his suit pocket.

Marshall Erickson: "$60, $80, $100, $18,000 in cash. It's nothing. I'll bring it home and put it in a safe place. Ok, I'm walking down the street with money in my pocket. DONT TOUCH THE MONEY! It's so obvious. Be natural. The baby is looking at me. Babies can smell money. He knows. THEY ALL KNOW! I AM CARRYING A LOT OF MONEY!!!"

That's exactly how I felt with my man purse full of moolah, which also goes to explain why I used that pic of some grunt falling asleep at the wheel. I expect this to be me somewhere off the side of I-15 tomorrow evening. Anyway, this is where I stand. Sitting on a broken bus with a bruised coccyx at nearly 2 in the morning about to be date raped like a chicken for 20 grand.

If I don't make it out alive from this kerfuffle, give my house to Trisha.