Fat lollers

There ought to be a word for the lolling of an overweight, sleepy, ugly man across your bus seat first thing in the morning.

Such a plump personage lolled directly onto my shoulder this morning. Even after I pushed him away, and gave him my hardest stare, he re-lolled. He was a repeat-loller. I thought about changing seat, but the only other seat available was next to a man who seemed to be in the last stages of TB. And whilst, from a literary perspective, wasting away from consumption sounds a pale and interesting type of thing to do, I'm not sure how it fits with my current career plans.

The Number 8 bus is like Russian Roulette, except instead of a gun, there's a bus, and instead of bullets, there are passengers. And instead of the possibility of having your brains blown out, there's the possibility of being very slightly inconvenienced.

I am brilliant at similies.