Deciding About Decision-Making

Oh, you're back. That was a wise decision.

The decision, of course, was mine. I have decided to school you in the art of the fine art of decision-making.

Ah, you remain. Once again, I have decided wisely.

Have you ever considered that a bus could kill you? And not in the conventional method either, which would require you getting in front or underneath it. Or even if you were on top of it like a movie henchman and failed to notice the sign that said "Danger: Low Bridge."

No, I'm talking about a bus of evil. A Death Bus.

Imagine for a moment that it's a peaceful Tuesday morning. The birds are shining, the sun is chirping, and there isn't a single vagrant in sight. You're waiting at the bus stop for your daily commute, when just like clockwork, the bus arrives. Well, not actually like clockwork, since a car is quite unlike a piece of finely-tooled wrist machinery, but you get the point. And if you're reading this in the future (or Brasil) - where miniature armband buses calculate all time measurement for the government - forget the previous sentence.

So the bus stops, and you get on. The doors close, and the lumbering beast surges forward.

Ah ha! You've already fallen into the trap of a bus ferret, and you didn't even know it. Trust me, though - when the digestive juices begin oozing from the wall, you'll probably think something may be amiss. But nothing will miss, and by that I mean the acidic solution will eat away at your soft, doughy flesh. Sure, you'll scream and claw to get out, but the only people to hear you are the other passengers. Well, the ones with still-functioning ears and auditory canals, that is. And that housecat-sized yellowjacket.

No, not the tiny Italian man in the canary-colored blazer. I'm talking about the substantionally-sized bee near the box of loan assistance brochures. Pay attention here, because this is your only shot. Unless you've been successfully treated for eye herpes, in which case it's more like your fifty-third shot.

That bee is your only ticket to freedom, and there isn't a scalper in site. Immediately gain access to his hindquarters and hold on tight. Flip his pointed posterior at the large, pulsating man-shaped organ in the driver's seat, and fill it with holes and crippling bee venom. This will send the bus ferret into shock, bringing it to a halt and opening its oddly-placed jaws on the right side. Leap into the gap, good fellow, and make not haste!

Also, be sure to bring your bee friend with you. He may cause terror in the hearts and colons of slack-jawed onlookers, but you own that creature a debt. Return home and feed him yogurt and malt liquor to help him regain his strength (and also, venom).

In fact, mix up a glass for yourself, too. You've earned it. Next time you'll be more careful.

So what have we learned today? Let's recap.