Circa 2007
Honk if you’re going insane. There’s something about traffic that brings out the beast in me. When I want to get somewhere, I’d like to get there that day—especially if it’s just a trip to the grocery store down the street. Yeah, when you’ve got a severe hankering for a Snickers bar, the last thing you need is people on the roads impeding your quest for that caramel and nougat (whatever nougat is). Buckle up—I haven’t had my Snickers, so this may be a bitter tirade.
Traffic dictates my day. Please don’t ask me to meet you somewhere during rush hour—there are too many clowns invading the highway system. No, I won’t venture out, even if you are paying for the meal. I’m hiding in my house until the coast is clear. I like to save all my errands up for one day a month. My philosophy is, why space out your anger and rage?
Traffic gives me time to think… to think about all the other things I could be doing in my life instead of sitting here, stuck on a freeway with the other morons who also are deep in thought as they pick their noses. These are usually the moments when I ponder my existence. What am I doing here? What is this all about? Tell me, Alfie. And while you’re at it, Alfie, get your slow butt out of the fast lane.
With traffic, a simple nine-to-five job has now become a seven-to-seven job. The problem is that you only get paid for eight hours. Is it any wonder everyone goofs off at work? That’s right—stick it to the man for your hellish morning of rubbernecking.
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Changing lanes doesn’t get you anywhere faster. It does, however, give you a change of scenery. Instead of an SUV bumper you get to look at a Ford Escort bumper. Incidentally, what was Ford thinking when he came up with this crazy idea for a vehicle to get us around? Looking back, the horse seemed much simpler. I doubt horses were running people off the road, and they certainly didn’t cause sig alerts.
Would it be too much to ask of the general public to just stay at home until I finish my errands? Come on, help a brother out. I know a lot of you have important things to do, but can’t those just wait ’til next year? You certainly live with that principal when it comes to preparing your taxes.
Little things could help out. Moms, drop your kids off at school on Monday mornings, then pick them up on Friday afternoons. And dads, you can help, too, by calling in sick to work a couple days of the week. Car pools were never a good idea, sitting in the car listening to some fool ramble on about politics or what colleges his kid is thinking of attending. No thanks, I’ll sit next to a smelly bum on the bus and give him a quarter if he promises not to talk to me about government conspiracies. Fifty cents if he promises not to talk at all.
Traffic seems to flow smoothly whenever you’re not in a rush to get somewhere. But if you have to go, say, diffuse a rogue nuclear device, the streets are packed and you’re stuck following an old man who’s had his blinker on for the last 14 miles. Senior citizens don’t need a driver’s license at all, except to go catch that three o’clock bluebird buffet dinner. Likewise, teenagers shouldn’t be on the streets either, unless they have a job to help pay for road maintenance. And turn down that loud, banging rap music at stoplights— you’re not helping my traffic headache… Punks!
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Once you’ve been in the highway combat zone, road rage and drive-by shootings seem like understandably forgivable offenses. Tell me you haven’t contemplated mass murder on the beltways. Hey, it doesn’t make you a bad person. Thank God there’s commercial-free satellite radio to distract you from these yearnings to go postal.
On a totally irrelevant side note, I’ve noticed that when people are in boats they wave to you with a big smile. But put these same people behind the wheel of a car and they’ll run your butt over without a second thought of hanging up their cell phone. Maybe the key to tranquility is a serene body of water–either that or the beer in the cooler.
Too bad we can’t float down the 405, because this driving is driving me crazy. I need some kind of back-up to all the back-ups. Maybe I should just try to relax, mumble “serenity now” and take slow, deep breaths as I flip off the driver in the next lane.
Perhaps in the future we can just think of the place we want to go and Shazam! we’ll be there. Right now I’m thinking of the Playboy mansion… Oh great, there’s a 26-man pile-up at the front door.
by Jeff Charlebois
