Uncle George the Disabled Bus Driver
There’s not many people who can say Big Daddy actually sat on their face. But my Uncle George can. He used to be a professional wrestler back in the eighties. You could say he’s as hard as a teenage boy’s cock who’s just been invited into the Playboy Mansion to judge a naked bunnygirl table tennis competition.

My Uncle George is also a bus driver (the No. 27 route in Coventry, for anyone who wants to say hello to the fella, he’s the BIG mountain of muscle with a fuzzy beard which makes him look a little bit like Bluto’s older, scarier, harder brother).

One time Uncle George was running a little late. This meant he didn’t get to have his customary fag break whilst back at the depot and he had to go straight back out on route. He’s a chain smoker of David Bowie proportions and as such gets angry as fuck if he can’t have his two-hourly lovely woodbine fix topping up the kind of super rich nictoine levels flowing through his veins that would kill a shire horse stone cold dead at twenty paces. So, being a sneaky sod, Uncle George whizzes through the city centre, picking no fucker up, while having a cheeky fag out the window of the cabin. All’s going well until he remembers he actually needs two hands on the wheel to operate a bus properly. This thought came to mind when he nearly totalled the front of Barclays Bank going round a sharp bend. He drops his fag in his lap, grabs the wheel, and saves the day. The ciggie then proceeds to burn a large molten plastic hole in the crotch of his polyester mix uniform trousers and eats its way down Alien-pissing-blood-style into his Debenhams Y-fronts.

Uncle George slams on the anchors, wailing like a bitch in heat as he slaps at his burning meat and two veg. The *ahem* flash fire spreads quicker than a bout of syphillis in a holiday camp for swingers. Uncle George eventually bats out the pubic flames and stares at his fire ravaged cock and pubes; his man meat resembles a small, scared trembling mouse caught in the ravages of a *ahem* bush fire. There’s no permanent damage but Uncle George will be peeling little bits of melted plastic off his bell end, love hose and scrote crevices for weeks to come.

There’s a hole... Not a particularly big hole, but a hole all the same. Large enough, if he were to stand and walk about, for anyone to notice this man was – in point of fact – airing his dangly family jewels.

Uncle George does the only reasonable thing – he sits there and sparks up a new woodbine. Then, after this, he starts doing his route properly – stopping and letting passengers get on and everything! All the time he’s wondering what the hell he’s going to do when he gets back to the depot – walking round with your cock hanging out is not an option (not even in Coventry). His mind on other things, he hardly notices the bus fill up. He’s on autopilot. And he doesnt hear the elderly passenger calling him as he pulls in at the next stop. The No. 27 is the bus to Walsgrave Hospital, so you get a lot of doddery old coffin dodgers blocking up the seats with the stench of impending death and stories about how good it used to be before clitoral piercings, free love, and the female orgasm.

“I need some help getting on,” came this timid voice.

Uncle George just stares ahead. His heart sinks.

“I said I need some help getting on,” again the fucking voice! “Can you hear me?!?”

Uncle George turns his head. Sat just outside the bus, waiting patiently, is a little elderly lady in a wheelchair. Now, Uncle George knew he was supposed to get up, sort out the ramp, wheel the old bugger onboard, stow the ramp, and fuck off bandit style into the evening gloom. But no, not this time. Not with this huge hole in his slacks and his plumbs and cock dangling like a meat wind chime.

“They’ll be another bus along in a minute, love,” said Uncle George.

This doesn’t go down too well. Uncle George hears some other passenger behind him advise him that he is, in fact, being a bit of a cunt. The old dear, the extra from Chorlton and the Wheelies, starts to protest, starts to get old-person angry, starts threatening to write a nasty letter to the Coventry Telegraph.

Uncle George considers getting up, sorting out the ramp, facing the very real chance that thirty or so people on the bus will see his fire damaged gonadal area. But then he hits on an idea. An excellent idea. A watertight excuse so he wouldn’t have to stand and save his ever-decreasing dignity. He whispers it at first, so only the old woman will hear. She doesn’t hear. She’s probably as deaf as a Take That fan. So he says it again as she strains. Then again, only louder this time. The old bugger still can’t hear.

So Uncle George places both hands firmly on the steering wheel, takes a deep breath, and roars:

“I CAN’T GET THE RAMP OUT BECAUSE I’M A PARAPLEGIC !!!”

Silence. Confused silence, but silence all the same. George closes the doors and fucks off, leaving the old dear looking a little stunned still on the pavement. As the rest of his passengers disembark he gets the occasional look of sympathy, the occasional momentary glance of support.

A few days later Uncle George was called into the supervisors office. Oh, fuck! The supervisor sits him down and hands over a card and a letter. “You were doing the No. 27 run last Thursday, right?” Uncle George does a little scared wee. The supervisor continues: “I’d just like to say you’re doing a sterling job, George. Not sure what you get up to out there, but I tell you it’s not every day we get a letter from a member of the general public saying one of our drivers is an example and an inspiration to others. Well done!”

Uncle George just stares down at the lovely card feeling a little perplexed (and incredibly guilty)…
( SpankyHanky, Thu 25 Jun 2009, 16:23, 3 replies)

Classic post matey, but...
I think it's Chorlton and the Wheelies.

*removes cap of pedantry*

*clicks extra hard by way of apology*

Nice work with the Playboy mansion simile, by the way.
( TheMagicDwarf is back like ballroom dancing, Thu 25 Jun 2009, 16:38, closed)

You're absolutely right, mate
Scrub Charlton for Chorlton - either way that fucking show used to make me shit myself when I was a kid. Scariest fucking program ever made. Still gives me the heebie-jeebies now just thinking about it...
( SpankyHanky, Thu 25 Jun 2009, 16:40, closed)

his plumbs and cock dangling like a meat wind chime
made me spit my tea. Brillaint
(yadayadayada, Thu 25 Jun 2009, 17:12, closed)