Steven and I joke a lot about the existence of gay retards, and I remained skeptical until Tuesday on a bus to Hollywood.

Picture an overweight Woody Allen with grandpa glasses, orange earplugs, mismatched socks and balding hair clumped together by plastic, neon-colored jaw clips.

He smiled at random Mexicans for uncomfortable intervals of time and emitted a pterodactyl noise as his stop neared.

We both unboarded at Fairfax, after which I watched him don a white bucket hat with a turquoise floral print and jay-run across a street in a fey, feminine gait, hands held limply in the air.

Crazy topless lady is no longer the strangest bus passenger I've encountered in Los Angeles.