| Amount of texts to »Greyhound« | 32, and there are 29 texts (90.62%) with a rating above the adjusted level (-3) |
| Average lenght of texts | 114 Characters |
| Average Rating | 2.094 points, 11 Not rated texts |
| First text | on Apr 12th 2000, 21:02:56 wrote Groggy groove about Greyhound |
| Latest text | on Nov 29th 2024, 02:04:51 wrote Emma Example about Greyhound |
| Some texts that have not been rated at all
(overall: 11) |
on Feb 20th 2001, 23:17:53 wrote
on Apr 16th 2003, 17:56:19 wrote
on Nov 29th 2024, 02:04:48 wrote |
Greyhounds are like lightning come to life- flashes of electricity. Watching one run is like watching an angel work, and when they stop and come up to you for attention it's like cuddling a ghost, their silvery grey fur damp with sweat.
They are beauty in dog form, slender, sleek and graceful. I've only met one before, but it made such an impression on me I had to write here.
When I was a kid, my parent's friends had a greyhound. His name was Caesar. Caesar really liked to get out in the open country and chase rabbits. He would chase them and easily run them down. One day we were all out watching Caesar chase rabbits when, all of a sudden, he slowed way down, came loping over to where everyone was, laid down and died. I guess he overdid it.
Greyhound. »That'll be cash on the barrelhead, Son. This old grey dog is paid to run.« Greyhound is the choice of the thrifty, & of those with time and a dislike of aeroplanes, & of those without pretensions, & of those who wish to interrupt their travel whenever it pleases them.
The secret to a good trip on Greyhound: Sit next to a foreigner or an old woman. The worst that can happen is you'll have a story to tell later.
When we get on the bus in New Haven, the girl in the seat behind us is singing:
»It's a small world after all! Iiiit's a smaaaaal woooorld aaaaafter aaaaall!«
About 60 miles of Interstate 95 later, we're well over an hour and a half into our trip and about a thousand choruses into the song--a thousand identical choruses, that is. By this time the performance has shifted from a traditionally melodic song into a rythmic chant:
»It's ... a small ... world ... af ... ter all!«
Two hours later when we get off the bus in Providence, it goes without saying that we will take the train back and that we will never, ever set foot in a Greyhound bus again.
I met a man on the Greyhound bus. He was a truck driver, for once not driving, but sitting and waiting while someone else brought him where he had to go. He told me about his daughter. He seemed so proud.
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