I write this in the most hushed tones and from a location that must remain secret for there are Forces out to kill me. Kill me, I tell you.
Every time I've left the house this week, I've had to deal with drivers who were obviously bent on taking me out, assassins of the road. Or maybe assholes of the road, same thing, really.
Are they on drugs? Possibly, although, I personally have driven when I was so loaded I thought my hands were robot powered spiders and done better than these goons. Are they zombies? Their lurching progress implies so. Are they zombies on drugs? Again, maybe.
Secret Agent Fred and I were attempting to flee the Castro yesterday when we were blocked by a minivan more than double parked. Sitting athwart 18th Street, it was more like triple parked, or at least 2.5 parked. It's possible the excess bumper stickers plastered on it had finally gotten to the driver. Or "driver," I should say. It was less like an effort at parking and more like someone simply abandoning his car.
Which is when a guy on a bike pulled up and yelled at the screamers that they were douche bags. It was a perfectly correct assessment, but I thought "And that's just what we need. Encouragement." Encouragement or not, finally the minivan gave up and was going to retreat, but by then traffic was so backed up in both directions, he couldn't. I was seriously considering taking my phone out to play a hand of Yahtzee, but the driver behind me suddenly emerged from his coma to reverse out at top speed like he was Jason Fucking Bourne, followed by me and the minivan.
Just remember, when you come to San Francisco be sure to wear a flower in your hair. And pack some serious heat. You might need it.
|Cars. They're only good as props for muscle pussy. Amiright?