I don't normally travel by bus, assuming that people who ride buses are geriatrics hooked up to oxygen tanks on their way to a casino or exist in a lower caste system than I do. No, I prefer to travel by plane if for no other reason than it makes spitting on the little people that much easier. I imagine all the hobos and derelicts in the back of some chicken and goat filled bus gaze in wonder as my phlegm hits terminal velocity and slices through their body odor-filled cabin.

The late booking of this trip meant I couldn't simply hop on a plane down to DC without paying a fortune. And 2008 had managed to turn my stock portfolio into nothing more than the combined values of Baltic and Mediterranean Avenues which meant it wasn't wise to spend money on frivolous things like plane trips to Washington or talking squirrels. After several recommendations, I booked a trip on the Bolt Bus, a company catering to young professionals shuttling between Boston, New York, Philadelphia and Washington, DC. They offered WiFi and power connections at each seat, which was enough to win me over. Assuming this bus company would be a cut-above the rest, the "JetBlue" of bus transportation, I happily signed on.

Standing outside on a cold and snowy day in New York City for more than five minutes is like slapping your testicles on a spring-break Jagermeister ice luge; wondering why you can't feel the bottom half of your body and wondering where all the girls with big breasts went. Such was the case as I waited for the bus on the corner of 33rd and 7th. My ticket told me to show up early, which was incredibly pointless as the bus was fifteen minutes late. At the end of it all, I'd lost all feeling in my body and was eyeing the man next to me as if he were a Uruguayan soccer player.

Once aboard the bus, I realized that bus travel hasn't been updated in the last 20 years since my fifth-grade trip to Sturbridge Village, and I was rather certain this trip would not end with me enjoying the inner workings of a saw mill. The seats were gray with stripes whose color pallet looked as if it'd come from Will Smith's "Parents Just Don't Understand" video. I was happy to be inside and warm, and even more happy that we were underway.

Firing up my laptop, I was sure I'd be able to get my work done. A simple connection to the bus's WiFi and I'd be sending out reports to clients and managing everything from my seat. And it worked beautifully, until we got outside the Lincoln Tunnel and the WiFi shutoff completely never to return. I was forced to read spreadsheets on my iPhone which is almost as futile as trying to fuck an air hockey table. To make matters worse, my seatmate who looked like he was either from Williamsburg or a terrorist, listened to Lawrence Welk big-band music at top volume on his iPod.

Outside of the Delaware Memorial Bridge in New Jersey, I noticed something wasn't quite right. We'd spent a good deal of the trip slinking over to the rumble strips lining the highway, only to be quickly over-corrected by our surprised driver. The traffic for the bridge must have come up unexpectedly as our driver slammed on the breaks, throwing all passengers into the back of the seats in front of them, and then drove into the breakdown lane to avoid hitting the car in front of us.

This happened twice.

However, between Baltimore and Washington on I-295, we weren't so lucky. A quick stop resulted in our bus smashing into the back of an SUV, sending the SUV spinning into the grass separating the north and southbound lanes. Pulling over and awaiting the state troopers (who showed up incredibly fast) I realized I'd be late to DC. Further, I was angered at our bus driver. In college, I was a member of the school's rowing team and was elected to drive one of the vans to the boathouse each morning. Before I was allowed to drive, they drilled into my head that a filled 11 passenger van takes much more room to stop than a normal car. I understood this and was allowed to carry my teammates. After all, it was simple physics. Our bus driver didn't quite get whichever of Newton's laws this rule applied to.

Sitting on the side of the road, watching traffic pile up on both sides as paperwork was exchanged, I thought of my warm bed, and the handle of gin I had sitting atop my refrigerator. Our bus driver apologized, and hopped behind the wheel once more. We were no more than 40 minutes outside DC and I was sure nothing else could go wrong. The quick stops continued, followed by hesitant looks forward and firm grasps on the seats by the rest of the passengers. We managed to make it the rest of the trip without hitting anyone ... again.

Though we did get lost.

If you were driving from New York to Washington, DC, you'd assume that the two cities you know better than anything would be these two destinations. Not even that, but you should know where your exit is and how far it takes one to drive from the exit to the drop-off point. Again, our bus driver didn't get this point. We had to pull over and wait as one of the passengers walked our bus driver through the proper directions as to how to get where we were going. I was steaming in my seat, wondering what sort of company could hire such blatant incompetence.

Somehow we made it to the drop-off. My mood was less than pleasant as my girlfriend picked me up (and handed me, illegally, a beer.) Having been with me for a while now, she understands when I just need to sit in peace and quiet and let my anger slowly flow out. The beer helped. It was followed by another as I took a hot shower at her house.

Looking back on the adventure, I realized that trip was rather illustrative of the year that we just went through. It was long, full of sudden stops and surprises leaving us waiting for the next crunch to hit.

And most of all, it left us feeling like we'd just been rear-ended.