MC Mumbles - star of both the number 17 bus route and a very special place inside his own head - is back, baby, and mumbling with a vigor normally reserved for the recently paroled.
Sit here, next to me, as we head into Minneapolis. It’s Christmas Eve Eve, and the bus is all but abandoned. The 12 to 15 people normally on during the early-morning rush has been reduced to six.
And MC Mumbles loves each and every one of us.
How else to explain this pre-dawn cabaret?
Look. There he is, up at the front of the bus. See him? How could you miss him? Heading bobbing rhythmically, he is deep within a groove, embedded in a Mariana Trench of a groove. One shudders to think of the depth of this groove. Surely no one man could survive the pressure?
But no! Groove on, my saggy-bottomed friend! Shoulders hunched, lips moving, brows furrowed, his very demeanor speaks of one who rocks hard, rocks often, rocks without equal.
He knows that you wish you knew him.
Mr. Mumbles emits a low-grade rumble, the sound of, perhaps, a tractor trailer dropping into low gear. Up a mountain.
In a fog.
He’s speaking English. Well, I think he’s speaking English. Something about female dogs and farm implements. I don’t know. You listen too closely and you find out things you don’t want to know.
A little selective deafness is a good thing.
Whoops! Here’s our stop. I hate to leave before intermission, but work’s got this “thing” about employees being on time. Restricting, if you ask me, but there’s nothing to be done about it.
We will leave MC Mumbles where we found him: on the bus.
Merry Christmas, my fellow commuter.
And rock on with your bad self.
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