Do I really believe that God has it in for me? No, but there’s mounting evidence that he could be holding a grudge. Why does it always seem like every time I’m late getting home for dinner with my family, the other side of the freeway is wide open and my side is more congested than Fran Drescher without Sudafed?
All I want to do is get home and keep my sanity, but as I look over the divide I see the other people driving along like pioneers, discovering the west for the first time–wide open spaces. Some of them are driving, some of them are barbecueing…a group of senior citizens are actually playing bridge on the dotted line.
I digest all of this information at the same moment that I inhale massive exhaust fumes from the stationary car in front of me. Finally after what seems longer than a pause that President Bush would take before trying to pronounce the word nuclear, I pass a car on the side of the road with double flashing blinkers and a distraught family of 6. Clearly the cause of the bottleneck.
I know they are in trouble…I realize I should feel compassion for them and maybe even consider being a good Samaritan and stopping to see what I can do, but instead I churn with resentment and can barely repress the impulse to give them the finger. What’s wrong with me?
As it turns out, nothing. It’s just another glorious day of rush hour in Los Angeles for me and several million other stressed out lunatics. And by the way, it’s not fair that they call it rush hour, cause I ain’t going anywhere.
Over the top and out,