The Freeway Gerbils: 2006
Welcome to a brave new world. The attitude of California drivers for the year 2006 has been systematically re-written, painstickingly by slow bumper to bumper traffic and sweet nothings whispered while having violent epileptic spasms behind the wheel. I am bummed, I feel vanquished. Bullet tooth Tony once said, "You should never underestimate the predictability of stupidity!" In the most humble 'parlance of our times' : True Dat. Now I have to take the 10 (Santa Monica Fwy) each day to go and return from work.
I typically end up spending twenty-five minutes each morning and about forty to fifty-five minutes each evening trying to brace a seven mile distance in between the good, the bad and the idiot. As I cruise past the traffice in my vehicle, I see the miracles of God. People. Good ones, idiotic kinds. So here is the definitive guide to the casual observer. In case you decide to take any of the following freeways: 73, 55, 105, 110, 133, 241, 57, 5, 405,605 and 710, prepare to meet these fine specimens, eye to eye, tete a tete. And remember, melodrama is a virtue.
The Bullterrier: This guy drives a pick up truck the size of a nuclear submarine that has torpedo tubes and an independant chick magnet activation system. When he rolled out of the DMV in his behemoth, I think he had a vedic newsflash that granted him permission to drive in two lanes and scare the living daylights out of other drivers. Apparently, the idea was to make them shit their pants and cry for dear life at the wheel.
The Drama Queen: This cutie pie should be in a soap wearing a two piece bikini trying to decide who to make a part of her love life: A latin American hunk, An all-American business executive or a Ralphs avocado. Now all that speculation's going on in her little head as she drives past me with her right blinker spewing morose code and her Mercedes C230 bearing a tad to the left @ three inches per millisecond.
The Tragedy Queen: Miss T has just realized that traffic's so bad, it'd require her to zip onto the elbow and engage her jet propelled banana boat with the nitroboost. Except in her all-confirming intelligence there was a remote possibility she knew that peak hour = heavy traffic. So what does she do? Change lanes and throw her hands up in the air as if trying to grab some air-dropped supplies by sympathetic Air force planes. Did I mention the phone cleverly attached to her ear and the familiar whining of her friend over too much cheese in a cheese cake?
The Desi Home-boy: The man himself. The Anachronistic idiot who has an ancestry from the same barrio as the writer but considers himself the all-american-gangster prototype. One hand on the steering wheel, the other resting tastefully on the side board, this fine muppet has 36" alloy wheels on his father's Toyota Camry and the suspension dodging the grit of the road by a mere four inches.
Desi Circus Clowns: I fall under this category toooo! You see, it's no rest for the wicked. We generally are very timid and stick to our lanes. Tougher times call for immediate responses to verbal altercations or spruced up sign language, but we tend to duck behind the wheel. Occasionally, when challenged by unparalleled incompetence, I engage the horn for a good fifteen seconds while I demonstrate my expertise and contributions to the world of hand signs. I use the back flip. The normal flip, disengaged in a backward circular motion with my hands way above my head. Effective, most of the times, but beware this can also trigger road rage!
More to follow....
The Weather Man:
The Man-who-would-be-King:
The Babe:
The Soccer Mom:
The Verizon Monkey:
I typically end up spending twenty-five minutes each morning and about forty to fifty-five minutes each evening trying to brace a seven mile distance in between the good, the bad and the idiot. As I cruise past the traffice in my vehicle, I see the miracles of God. People. Good ones, idiotic kinds. So here is the definitive guide to the casual observer. In case you decide to take any of the following freeways: 73, 55, 105, 110, 133, 241, 57, 5, 405,605 and 710, prepare to meet these fine specimens, eye to eye, tete a tete. And remember, melodrama is a virtue.
The Bullterrier: This guy drives a pick up truck the size of a nuclear submarine that has torpedo tubes and an independant chick magnet activation system. When he rolled out of the DMV in his behemoth, I think he had a vedic newsflash that granted him permission to drive in two lanes and scare the living daylights out of other drivers. Apparently, the idea was to make them shit their pants and cry for dear life at the wheel.
The Drama Queen: This cutie pie should be in a soap wearing a two piece bikini trying to decide who to make a part of her love life: A latin American hunk, An all-American business executive or a Ralphs avocado. Now all that speculation's going on in her little head as she drives past me with her right blinker spewing morose code and her Mercedes C230 bearing a tad to the left @ three inches per millisecond.
The Tragedy Queen: Miss T has just realized that traffic's so bad, it'd require her to zip onto the elbow and engage her jet propelled banana boat with the nitroboost. Except in her all-confirming intelligence there was a remote possibility she knew that peak hour = heavy traffic. So what does she do? Change lanes and throw her hands up in the air as if trying to grab some air-dropped supplies by sympathetic Air force planes. Did I mention the phone cleverly attached to her ear and the familiar whining of her friend over too much cheese in a cheese cake?
The Desi Home-boy: The man himself. The Anachronistic idiot who has an ancestry from the same barrio as the writer but considers himself the all-american-gangster prototype. One hand on the steering wheel, the other resting tastefully on the side board, this fine muppet has 36" alloy wheels on his father's Toyota Camry and the suspension dodging the grit of the road by a mere four inches.
Desi Circus Clowns: I fall under this category toooo! You see, it's no rest for the wicked. We generally are very timid and stick to our lanes. Tougher times call for immediate responses to verbal altercations or spruced up sign language, but we tend to duck behind the wheel. Occasionally, when challenged by unparalleled incompetence, I engage the horn for a good fifteen seconds while I demonstrate my expertise and contributions to the world of hand signs. I use the back flip. The normal flip, disengaged in a backward circular motion with my hands way above my head. Effective, most of the times, but beware this can also trigger road rage!
More to follow....
The Weather Man:
The Man-who-would-be-King:
The Babe:
The Soccer Mom:
The Verizon Monkey:
posted by Shaking Shenoy at 2/25/2006 12:50:00 PM
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