Franks and beans!

Is it wrong – or rather, I suppose I should ask, how wrong is it – that I deftly maneuvered a sweet last-second switcheroo on Mister Chatty Motherfucker this morning on the bus, so that he ended up seated next to an also very talky guy I’ll call Slightly Retarded Tony Gwynn? I hated to sic the King of Verbal Diarrhea on sweet, happy SRTG, but SRTG, a longtime regular on this route who likes to home in on the ladies (ALL the ladies) with his smooth lines (“You’re pretty! Are you married? Will you marry me? What time is it?”) delivered at one-and-a-half-times normal conversational volume, is the only other person on the bus who can handle that type of interpersonal interaction at this hour of the morning. I suppose the really, really wrong part was how bowel-quakingly hilarious it was to witness my relentlessly verbose bus-riding nemesis (may he rot in Shatner’s hairy anus for all eternity) trying to parry with SRTG, as if SRTG is listening to him or cares and isn’t going to answer his stupid questions and comments with “Do you have a sister? Is she pretty? What time is it?” over and over and over and over again.