I'm a little slow today. I just switched to Sanka. So...have a heart?

Monday, April 25, 2005


Mike - I was looking through my old comments, because I... have a sunburn today and don't want to learn tax...or comparative law, and I noticed that when you comment, you like to include such gems as "drug-induced ramblings." They are not drug-induced ramblings at all! Rather, they are stream-of-consciousness entries that vary in creativity and analysis, depending on certain factors.


But keep commenting. I like that people from high school read this. Hi, Beth. Remember that picture that we took that one time when I got that brush stuck in your hair, and you had to cut it out of your hair? And then you gave me that picture frame with that picture of the disaster in it and it says "Good Times" on the frame? I still have that! I don't, however, have the jacket, or heinous haircut that I was sporting at the time. Thank g-d.

So, I was conducing a Seder the other night (I know, RIGHT?!) and we all got to talking about how annoying it is to drive in Miami, and why I'm not nice anymore.

Remember previous posts where I've complained about how people here are retarded, they drive too slow, and entirely too many streets here are one-lane? (In Utopian Maryland, where first cousins can get married...we have more than one lane, usually...) Well. We got to talking at this particular Seder about how in Miami, people will turn out right in front of you onto a street...and then...drive 15 miles under the speed limit. Everyone's SOOOOO ANXIOUS to get out into traffic, and then SOOOOOO ANXIOUS to hold it up. It must be some kind of game, or weird exercise in control, just like all the building and community security guards love to engage in - the people making 20K/year, who WILL NOT LET YOU PAST THE GATE, UNLESS YOUR FRIEND PICKS UP THE PHONE AND SAYS YOU CAN COME IN! Okay, tangent:

Why is it that these retards, making minimum wage and carrying a billy-club, pepperspray and a walkie-talkie to NOWHERE, like fucking Freddie, our security guard here, in his little golf cart, take their jobs so seriously? If I were making minimum wage, I'd be like "Sure, c'mon in... if you're here to steal some stuff, just pick something up for me and toss it to me as you're running out... don't worry, I won't tell... #2484 has a collection of Rolex watches... see if you can snag me one..."

But no. Guards at Auschwitz were probably more lenient and flexible than some of the gatehouse guards and 50-State or Wackenhut people I've had to deal with. UGH. With their comfortable black shoes, polyester outfits, snazzy embroidered patches and their over-inflated sense of importance, every time they engage in one of their stern-faced, puffed-out-chested displays of pseudo authority, I throw up a little bit in my mouth. "Who you here to see? Meester Skultin? No? Schulten? ::ring:: ::ring:: ::answering machine:: I'n only getting da' machine. I try again. ::machine:: I'm sorry, he not answering, I can't let you in." (Yes, you can. Easily. Push the fucking button.) I call on my cell phone. Get through with no problems. Security guard motions to take my phone from me...I decline and put Spence on speakerphone. He says, "Let him in," irritably. We hang up. Guard smiles at me and says, "It's a good thing I know the sound of his voice!" I once again throw up a little bit in my mouth, raise my upper lip in a sneer and fake a chuckle. Yes, it's a good thing for me indeed. Lucky, lucky me to have a gatekeeper shower me with his bountiful benevolence.

Sorry, bud. Your job is to give the "illusion" of security. Time is money, and watching you operate the switchboard and try to nail the intricacies of how to spell my last name off my license (incorrectly, EVERY TIME) ...well, it takes too fucking long. You're hired to discourage the real thugs from coming in, but everybody knows that you're part of an image, and not a real security system. I'm a well-mannered, well-groomed kid, who's not driving a jalopy (yet.) and I don't at ALL fit the profile of ANYONE who'd be here to cause trouble. So lose the act, I'm coming in regardless. Sure, you can take some pride in your job, as giving the illusion of protection, but once you start fooling yourself into thinking that if a band of robbers drive up in their robbermobile you'll take them out with your little drumstick-sized baseball bat and your can of pepperspray, or die trying, well, then we've crossed from reality to kung-fu movie fantasy. You may be king of your apartment, where you beat your cat, and don't have to pick up the beercans off the floor for NOBODY, but I have people to see, and you're in my way. End of tangent.

Anyway, the moral of the story is, now that I've lived in Miami for a while, if I see someone stopping at a stopsign, I'll speed up so they can't pull out in front of me. I won't let people merge in front of me on the highways, or anywhere else for that matter, and if we're in a parking lot, I'm not going to patiently wait while you try to maneuver your car out of your space, I'm passing you goddammit. If you want to change lanes and get in front of me, that's not gonna happen either, and if you're stuck in a lane that you want to get out of because it's stopped and mine is moving, I'm not letting you in. Because here I have learned that no good deed goes unpunished. I used to be a really nice driver, always letting people in, and making space for them, and every. fucking. time. I do that here, I get burned. I get the guy who never shuts off his blinker as he drives 20 in a 50 mile-per-hour zone, or I get the freak that drives an automatic car with both feet, so that the brake lights are constantly lit, once again, usually while driving 20 miles under the speed limit. And it's really annoying.

So, that explains why if you ever see me zipping past you, and not letting you in, you know why. It's because I have a vendetta against you, it's personal, and it's your fault for being a bad driver without any regard for anyone but yourself. If you had gone a little faster in the past, or not done seemingly whatever you could to annoy me, I'd have let you in. You have no one to blame but yourself. Good luck trying to merge, asshole.