A Funny Thing Happened to Me After Work the Other Day

I’m about to dust off a real old vaudevillian chestnut.

A funny thing happened to me after work the other day…

You always hear that line or some variation of it on TV or in movies whenever they bring out a hacky comedian—“A funny thing happened to me on the way over here…”, “A funny thing happened to me the other day…”—and it’s always followed by some really corny old joke that’s been done to death like, “A funny thing happened to me on my way here to tonight: a guy comes up to me and he says, ‘I haven’t had a bite in days!’ So I bit him!” or “A funny thing happened to me on the way here: a guy walks up to me and he says he hasn’t tasted food in over a month, so I says to him, ‘Don’t worry; it still tastes the same.’”

This is something that actually happened to me. I wanna make that perfectly clear.

So, the other day…

You know, that saying kinda bothers me a little. “The other day”. Kind of implies that there’s only two days—there’s today and a day that’s not today. Didn’t happen today, so it happened “the other day”. This one other, mystical, non-descript day which exists solely for the purpose storytelling. This one wonderful, magical day that isn’t today where everything happens!

Well, there’s billions of calendars and phones around that can tell you that’s bullshit. In one year alone, there’s 365 days—366 if it’s a leap year. And those days, in various combinations, make up four seasons, twelve months, or fifty-two weeks. The average life expectancy in this country’s about seventy-eight years. So each person gets around 28,490 days, give or take a few. That makes 28,489 possible “other days” it could be.

For the sake of everyone’s sanity, primarily my own, I’m gonna give you the specific day. It was March 11th, 2025. Now, I had worked an overnight shift the night before, I went home, had some breakfast, and went off to the mall to buy myself a new pair of shoes. My tax return had come in and I was due for a new pair. I’d worn down the soles of the pair I bought with the last year’s tax return. That’s my pattern: file my taxes, get my return, buy a new pair of shoes.

So anyway, I hop on the bus to go home afterwards. While getting on board, I noticed someone had left behind a spiral notebook on one of the seats. I don’t know whose notebook it is, there’s nothing I can do about it, so I just keep walking and take my seat.

Not too long after, this one guy gets on the bus. Now, I want to you to picture the absolute douchiest fuckin’ guy you can possibly imagine. I’m talkin’ this skinny, lanky ol’ white guy…with one of them shiny black baseball caps…and the diamond stud earrings…and the chain necklace…and a goatee! Dictionary definition of the word “douche”. And he was carrying with him something that I’m pretty sure was a folded up baby carriage. God, just think of it: some poor woman looked at that asshole and decided “I wanna procreate with that guy! The world needs more of him!” A decision I’m sure was influenced by a very strong alcoholic beverage.

So anyway, this guy gets on the bus, he sits down and he sees the notebook…and he picks it up and starts leafing through it.

This son of a bitch…picks up this random notebook that someone left behind on a city bus…and just starts readin’ the fuckin’ thing! Like it was the Holy fuckin’ Bible! He gets damn invested in it, too.

Naturally, my curiosity gets piqued. I start to wonder what the fuck’s so interesting about this damn notebook. Now, I’m sitting pretty far from the guy, so I can’t really make out any of the writing, but I notice that every page has a little three-word header…kinda looks like it might say “Dear…” something-something…

This asshole’s reading some stranger’s diary on the fuckin’ bus!

Now, based on the time of day and the fact that it’s a damn spiral notebook, I assume it belongs to someone no older than a high school sophomore. So some poor kid left their diary behind on the bus after school and now some total fuckin’ stranger—an adult man, I might reiterate—is sittin’ there reading it like it’s a damn young adult novel.

And at a couple points while he’s reading it, he “stealthily”—and I use that term loosely—he “stealthily” puts his vape pen up to his fuckin’ mouth—because of fucking God damn course he vapes—and he takes a drag. Little puffs of smoke emit from his cakehole and he’s all nonchalant like no one can see those little puffs of smoke. There’s literally a sign that says “no smoking” ‘cause it’s a bus and every bus has a “no smoking” sign, and this guy’s just vapin’ away!

“Well, it’s a picture of a cigarette. I’m using a vape pen; it’s different. And besides, the windows are open, so what’s the big deal?”

Again…douche.

And just before he gets off the bus, you know what this asshole does? He folds up the notebook and tucks it away in his folded up baby carriage. Then off he goes on his merry fuckin’ way.

This motherfucker…this shit stain of a human being…finds some poor teenager’s diary on the fuckin’ bus, reads it shamelessly like there’s anything in there that’s any of his fuckin’ concern, and then he decides to take it home with him, presumably to further peruse the musings and anguished cries of an underage stranger for his own sick entertainment while vaping on the shitter!

See, this is what’s wrong with the country nowadays: nobody knows how to just mind their own fuckin’ business!