Thursday, January 27, 2011

Traffic Report

The road down through the canyon to our street is undergoing crazy intense construction, as is the intersection at the top of the hill. Combined, this means traffic backs way the hell up all over the place.
Houseboy Muncie Mufftard sometimes gets out and walks.

mrpeenee attempts to be mindful of this at all times and vigilant about taking the back way home instead. The problem is, the intersection to turn off for said back way is designed in such a way that you can see the dreadful traffic jam waiting for you only if you fail to take a left at the light. And then, because traffic engineers are sadistic pervy nerds, there is no way to get off the street until the other side of the most dense snarl of cars, trucks, and weeping, possibly suicidal drivers seen since Eisenhower was in office.

Thus, if one is cruising home pondering deeply about how Liza Minelli and the Pet Shop Boys ever wound up in the same studio at the same time one can sail right through the back way intersection and be well and truly stuck. This just in: shrieking "Goddamit, goddamit, goddamit" does nothing to alleviate the situation.

9 comments:

  1. I know I'm insufferable, but you are describing the morning commute in Queens...
    Every crumb for himself.

    By the way, would you mind awfully if I borrowed Muncie for an afternoon sometime, dear?

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  2. I'm sorry, I never lend the houseboys out. They always come back all sticky.

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  3. What is that white stuff smeared all over the side of your vehicle?

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  4. Oh, Liza's all easy to get to go anywhere, I'm sure.
    Just get two gay men and a spare vicodin, and she'd be in your bathroom ready to record.

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  5. next time put down the top and go sit on the hood. kabuki likes to look pensive at the same time. if traffic is not going to move you might as well practice your male modeling skills.

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  6. isn't there some button you can push on your GPS?

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  7. Traffic. Ugh. I've been through it all, esp. commuting from one end of "The Valley" through the canyons into West Hollywood. A 22 mile drive would take me two hours. Last Monday, there was a huge funeral downtown for two slain cops, so I couldn't get off the beach. For two hours I sat at my computer, fuming about missing my Zumba class, while cars beeped continuously and without effect, on my street below. For a second, I believed I was in Manhattan instead of Miami Beach.

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