As I was busing home from work, a man in his late thirties steps on board. Clad in soured khaki cargo shorts, a cheap Hawaiian shirt, and white Nike socks tucked inside scuffed white sneakers with no visible label. His hair had the familiarity of my childhood barber’s style, a Mr. S. Cuts; who upon my final visit attempted to make my ear and hair the same length. And of course the doucheglasses, a very special pair of sunglasses that warn young women to stay far away. This fellow scans the bus, acquires a target, ignores the eight completely opens seats–with no one around at all–and creepily sits beside the tall dirty blonde with ass-high jean shorts a seat up from me. He sits, gets comfy and says “Hey the-r-e…” to this girl who couldn’t have been older than 16. Did she reply? No. Did she look up and laugh at the asshole’s bad tan and handlebar mustache? Nope. She was iron (sadly, probably at the cost of dealing with this issue constantly), she didn’t a move a muscle, she didn’t sigh, it was the stonewall that stonewalls. He just sat there and looked around awkwardly for a minute before he got up and took a different seat. That’s when I stuck, with the most excruciating eye contact I could muster, and at that moment we both knew: he was a fucking loser. I got off the bus, and enjoyed my beer just a little bit more than most days.