With Ill Regulated Proclivity in Tow

A minivan cuts off the bus to which the driver slams on the brakes and screams out "goddammit!!!"
The entire cabin-populace nods forward from the inertial deceleration in involuntary uniformity. The sudden outburst elicits a rather intense discussion between a select few anticommuters sitting by the driver. One in the side-facing row behind the cockpit wearing a newsboy cap and sporting a neck tattoo of a sword-wielding angel is the second most vocal. The most outraged is one on the opposing side that blasts story after story of his experiences with driving under such conditions. I attempt to drown out the verbal deluge with a bit of The Chicken Farm pouring out of my earphones.
It is to absolutely no avail.
None.
Their whining enthusiasm remains unmatched and unheeded in every which way. The only solace I possess is the knowledge that they will be departing the bus soon. How do I know this? I just do. Call it experience, alchemy, prescience, hocus-pocus, whatever. It just has finally come to this regardless of what one's preconceived notions may be about prejudicial inklings; I just can tell if one belongs on a certain route, wherever it may originate or its final destination. Those I speak of did not belong on this route, hence my nickname, "anticommuters." And just as predicted, they all leave at the last free stop downtown.
The reader (a few and far between) can take this anyway they'd like. Rest-assured they will, indeed with their ill-regulated proclivity in tow.