the angry blogger, part 2

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anybody who drives faster than you is a maniac. anybody who drives slower than you is an asshole.

george carlin

there's this one spot on narrow, twisting benedict canyon drive--in fact, the only one--where i have a chance to pass all the slow-moving assholes god has chosen to scatter in my path that day, and thus have a shot at making it to work on time. but only if the timing's right, and i have the balls.

and i always have the balls.

it works like this: if the light turns red at clear view as i round the bend, i don't hesitate, knowing that this is god's freebie to me that day.

as everyone ahead of me obediently slows to a stop, i slip into the always-empty left-turn lane and accelerate, trusting that by the time i pull abreast of the lead car at full speed, god will have turned the short light from red to green, thus allowing me, his chosen one, to spurt like greased lightning between whatever slow-ass motherfucker(s) he has cunningly placed ahead of me and whoever he has arranged to have coming at me in the other direction.

everybody honks [and it always scares the shit outta v when he's with me] but god and i don't care--we're too deep in the game.

* * * * *

i know i'm supposed to be agnostic, and i usually am--except whenever i get behind the wheel and prepare to do battle with a great and mischievous almighty whom i am convinced not only exists, but is playing against me by placing slow-moving, obstructive (and often erratically asian) motorized obstacles in my path whenever i attempt to make my single-minded way from point a to point b.

[and yes of course i realize this makes me the star of my own truman show--what's your goddam point?]

* * * * *

i have a great and very forgiving job, the exception being that if i'm late more than three times a month, there are serious and material consequences.

in the hands of any sensible, rational driver, my commute would take at least 40 minutes, which is probably why i rarely if ever manage to make it outta the house with more than 35 minutes to spare.

* * * * *

once outta benedict canyon, it's two lanes and i'm in my element--i slalom down third street around the slow-movers all the way from beverly hills to downtown with all the precision, arrogance and grace of an olympic skier--each car that pulls out in front of me at 20 mph a challenge, each barely-made stoplight a triumph.

of course by the time i pull into the parking garage at work i'm red-faced and seething, fists bruised from pounding the steering wheel, hoarse from screaming at all the slow-moving assholes and with visible veins pulsing in my temples--but by god, i usually make it.

could i leave home five minutes earlier? yeah i suppose, but what fun would that be?

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this post was supposed to have fallen somewhere between this one and this one--don't ask me why i didn't hit "publish" way back when [because god knows i've proudly published worse].