What is the frequency, Kenneth?

Madam, you smell of multiple cats and a too-infrequently-changed mega-maxi pad, besides which on the way home I am often treated to your side of a neverending cellular-phone conversation in re: what is or is not in the oven that you may or may not make for dinner for a person or persons who may or may not wait up for you and whether they have or have not given yet a third party his or her medications today. So don’t get all shirty with me, asking if I want to switch seats when Mister Chatty Motherfucker won’t stop his dain-bramaged babbling even after he and I are seated (deliberately on my part) on opposite sides of you and I settle in for what I fondly hope is twenty minutes of swaying, jostling near-sleep on this goddamned crazy-train bus.