The jackass in the yellow 1978 Datsun pick-up cut me off from the left, and proceeded to drive five miles under the speed limit. "Of course," I thought, "Goddamn eastside hillbillies don't know how to drive." Didn't Mr. Rustmobile know I had important things to do?
Airport traffic had been a bitch, and it took forever to drop my mom off at the curb. The return trip on I-205 was likewise languishing, what with Sunday construction and retreating weekend warriors. I decided to forgo the torture and insult of weekend traffic, and diverted to 82nd Ave.
I had previously planned a short jaunt off the freeway anyway, to hit the Best Buy further down 82nd. You know this route. Every town has one. This is the broad car-friendly unplanned commercial district, home of used-car lots, head shops, acupuncturist and Russian mattress outlets. These shops are being overrun by Krispy Kreme, Best Buy, WalMart and Home Depot. Traffic is always thick, but I assumed it would be faster than the continental-drift-like pace of the interstate.
Tragically, I hit every red light. I also got stuck behind every nimrod who feared driving double-digit speeds.
Again, the signal turned red in front of me. I sat fuming, taking inventory of my grievances: my new cell phone seemed to be the only Nokia model that didn't fit my previously-owned mobile charger, I still had an hour of work to do before Monday, I wasn't sure when I'd have time to hang the new curtains, and I was getting an irritating buzz from my satellite radio. The day was just simply NOT going my way.
It was then that she crossed the street in the crosswalk in front of me. "She," well, rather at first, I thought "It." A small oddly-shaped lump with a head, strapped slouched-fashion into a well-worn motorized chair. No sign of any leg or leg-like appendage. No stump, just torso. No arms to speak of either. No flapping beaks from the shoulders. No Shoulders, now that I think about it. But for the face, not recognizable as human.
She drove her wheel chair expertly by blowing air-codes into a tube, taped to her mouth. She rode with confidence. Next, I saw that someone who seemed to care about her had made her a hat out of silver tinsel, and as she drove passed the hood of my car, tinsel bits waiving in the wind, she winked at me.
Well, fuck me and my "Problems." And come to think of it, fuck your problems too.
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She sounds HOT did you at least get her number?
ReplyDeleteI think you should design and sell an official Gin & Tonic Lounge Tinsel Hat. The hat to wear on a crappy day to put things in perspective.
ReplyDeletethat is a genius idea.
ReplyDeleteI saw a half man on a skateboard once in Seattle. It really confused me. He had no body under the lowest part of the average person's ribcage. Where did everything fit? He didn't even need pants, he just sat on his shirt tails. God I wanted to see him naked. Of course, I feel this way about normal men too.
ReplyDeleteBy the way, I'll take a tinsel hat too. Not in order to be grateful for what I have, but rather as a way to secretly mock the contorted and infirm.
ReplyDeletethink she hangs out with this guy
ReplyDeleteTom, how can you secretly mock yourself?
ReplyDeleteI'd just linke to point out that the dude at the link provided by margus is on the Mississippi Sex Offender DataBase Website. If there ever was a clearer case of why you shouldn't molest your cousin, this picture is it.
ReplyDeleteI'd be angry if it wasn't true. Not only am I on that damned Mississippi sex offenders database, but now I'm being mocked by the anonymous...
ReplyDelete