On the Bus

Thursday afternoon, St. Clair West, around 2:30. The sun is hitting the bus on the right side, so the riders have all chosen to sit on the left. A man steps onto the eastbound bus, age 46, Afrocaribbean.
"What's the matter? You white guys all afraid of the sun? Afraid you'll get a tan? I don't need no tan, I got more pigment in my skin than you. You ain't even that white anyway. What are you guys, Italian? And you, I didn't ask you to smile. You're just some kinda immigrant."
"I'm from Africa, South Africa."
"Right on, brother." Punches my fist. "That's why I started with you. You Canadian guys," gestures to the man on his right, "you couldn't take it. You're just Canadian."
Proceeds to talk about his Russian girlfriend of three years, and his abilities to please her. "A girl needs a guy who can give her a good push. Bumbaclaat!"
The bus has ridden off the rails, and proceeds south on Bathurst. I ask the driver to let me off at Davenport. As I leave, the man says:
"Don't call the police! I'm a professional comedian. That'll be $10."