Warning: If buttocks offend you, stop here.
When a rickshaw contains three passengers and one large suitcase, the gymnast of the trio sits in the middle and performs a full-split. He may capitalise on this position and deliver a baby, but this is not advisable. Space constraints will eject man, suitcase or baby.
If you are the fourth passenger of a share-rickshaw and engrossed in backside politics with the driver, be careful. He will reach between your unwilling thighs, grasp firmly, and jerk – the starter.
Passengers cornered into window seats of the new BEST buses conform to the first orthopaedic principle – immobilisation. Buttocks are compressed into bucket seats designed for a toddler’s tush. One shoulder is braced against the shutter of a window set low enough to wind-blast your abdomen. The other is wedged into the man-boob of a bariatric surgeon’s delight.
When squeezed into a packed last seat, one feeble contraction of your Bebo-ish derrière produces Richter-scale tremors in the Dolly Bindra-esque bottom seven places away. When a speed breaker launches your collective backsides into mid-air, ‘one gigantic arse’ acquires literal meaning.
In interstate buses, a hanky flung through a window earmarks its landing spot for one-and-a-half buttocks or a mother with her bedwetting child (whichever is larger). Clinging onto his palm’s-width of seat with a sliver of buttock, your co-passenger across the aisle steadies himself by plonking one foot on the mountain of raw fish between you two. The foot will bear ulcers.
Those last to get toeholds in a local train form a bulging skein of quivering buttocks asking to be gently patted, perhaps by fond commuters jostling at the next station. In the meanwhile, the expulsive force that builds up is transmitted hillock-to-buttock, especially in the morning (you know what I mean). As we’re all (resignedly) consenting adults and actual sodomy is averted by hopefully at least four layers of clothing, Hakuna Matata.
Some men travel with their families. You courteously avoid contact with the ‘leddies’ by becoming Siamese twins with the foul-mouthed rogue beside you. You try to avoid inserting the heads of their many imps between your buttocks. When they alight, you behold that the tender surface on which you’d focussed your weight is an ancient gentlemen, lying dead asleep.
Tall women of marriageable age will benefit from a night’s contorted slumber on the RAC side-berth of an outstation train – four inches height loss guaranteed. Time spent sitting on an upper berth with chin massaging thyroid is for fingering the lint out of your belly button – the only thing in sight.
Gravity makes you graze your buttocks past your neighbour’s grimacing face and rush to use the aircraft’s Lilliputian loo. Like Stanley ‘The Mask’ Ipkiss, you redistribute your bulk around the food cart. Your neck is cricked to the acutest angle while you admire your neighbour’s gourmet meal and wonder why yours looks like yesterday’s leftovers allowed to mature overnight in a warm dumpster.
About the biomechanics of ship journeys, I am at sea.
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