A man gets on the bus. A homeless man with big, black pits for eyes, like he was on too much AUM, or maybe he was just crazy. It can be hard to tell the difference sometimes. He smells like spam. His hair is so greasy that each strand is as thick as spaghetti. His rolling eyes are infectious, and everyone is nervous.

As he makes his way to the back, he passes out small green slips of paper. They look like money, but they have pictures of roadkill and fabric softener bottles instead of dead presidents, and the words "THIS IS REAL MONEY" written on them in yellow crayon. Some people don't want them, but he throws handfulls at them anyway, with the glee that a rich man might have when buying off the poor.

For some reason, nobody thanks him.

He sits next to me, and starts talking to me like I know him.

"Nice day for a poodle," he says.

For some reason, I agree.

"This is the way it always is, when you notice," he continues.

It's the sanest thing I've ever heard.

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