Are you ready for an expose on the abysmal state of mental hospitals in our country? No? Well, go have a drink, take a walk around the block, slap yourself in the face or whatever it takes, and come back.

Okay, ready now? Good. Because I’m going to give you the dirty on a dirty, dirty industry.

I wasn’t intending to write this story, but sometimes the truth sneaks up behind you and takes a knife to your heels. My car died recently. There was some coughing and sputtering while smoke swelled above the hood, and then it died. Since then I’ve been bumming rides mostly. But when an old colleague (who happens to be very well put-together, if you know what I mean) asked me to go have coffee, I decided to take a bus. How embarrassing would it be to ask for a ride on a date? I mean, what is a man without a car? I don’t have the answer for that, but it is probably similar to the one for what a man is without testicles.

So I stood at the corner of 16th and Reckford and waited for a bus. I had my fare in hand and a map of the city in my back pocket. The lumbering vehicle pulled up (after a lengthy wait, I must say), and its doors opened for me. I tipped my hat to the driver and put my quarters in the machine. The driver was a round-faced Hispanic man who didn’t seem to have a problem finding enough to eat.

I sat alone, thinking about meeting up with this woman. Hopefully she was still broken up with her boyfriend. Hopefully she was turned by truth-delivering journalists. I felt a strange feeling then, like I had taken a wrong turn somewhere. I looked up.

A man in a Jiffy Lube shirt held a radio to his ear. It was playing Akon’s “Smack That.” With a pained look on his face said into the radio, “What? Hello? Who’s there?” Someone in a football jersey was picking his teeth with his knuckles. There were snorters, glarers, and guys who shook their fat like they were trying to dry it off. A woman in a wheelchair with checkers-sized moles on her face seemed to be giving the steal sign in an invisible baseball game.

I hadn’t stepped onto a bus at all. This was a mental hospital on wheels. I have a feeling this was Reagan’s idea. Maybe it makes the patients feel like they’re going somewhere; maybe the motion is healthy for them. And I’m all for innovations in the mental health field. But good God, don’t let the general public aboard your nutso bus. You can’t mix crazy and uncrazy. It’s not good for either group. On top of all this, I saw some of these patients escape. The guy in charge (the driver) didn’t even care. We stopped at a burger joint, and the fat shaker got off. We got to the post office, and the woman who was managing the invisible baseball game was allowed to leave without a struggle.

Are we just handing out crazies to every street corner? How irresponsible is that? I went up to the driver and said, “Excuse me, there’s been a mistake. You see, I’m not insane.”

He looked at me, annoyed, before turning his attention back to the road.

“Aren’t you a government employee? Don’t you care about who goes in and out of your hospital?” I screamed.

He refused to answer. I took down his information and reported him later. I took matters into my own hands and made sure I was the only non-crazy to get on the bus. Every time we stopped and a mother with hoop earrings and her baby held up to her breasts tried to come on, I kicked her. “This isn’t a bus, lady. I’m doing you a favor.”

And old woman in an AMC uniform wanted to ride, I pushed her on her back. A hipster college student with eyeliner (this is a man we’re talking about) wanted to get on and go somewhere. I shoved him back  from wherest he came.

And no one was getting off either. I kept the insane population inside their portable hospital. I expected no thanks. The driver called the police on me.

“If you were doing your job,” I told him, “I wouldn’t have to do this.”

I was chased off the mental hospital on wheels by the police. And I escaped due to quick feet and justice being on my side. And now I write this, to inform all of you. Be aware that our government is basically trolling an asylum right through your neighborhood. One day, when you might be trying to get to a kite festival on the other side of town, you could end up right in the thick of the cuckoo’s nest.