There’s nothing that spreads joy, goodwill and glee quite like a traffic jam. You just want to reach out and hug the drivers of the cars around you. Puppies and kitties. Puppies and kitties.
Screw that.
You want to kill everyone.
If you had a James Bond car, you’d be lighting up the horizon with your missiles. You can hear the seconds ticking as you know you’re going to be late to work.
Tick. Tick. Tick. Son of a….
A vein pops out of your forehead.
Then you think of puppies and kittens. You try to lower your blood pressure until suddenly that butthead in front of you slams on her brakes. You swerve to the left and drive through some tire gators that an 18-wheeler left earlier. KATHUMP.
You get back into your lane.
You’re trapped like a rat. The traffic copter flies over, mocking you as you sit motionless in the fast lane. If only you had a Stinger missile.
Time to think of puppies and kittens again. Your mind wanders, “whose brother-in-law got the contract to design a CURVE in the interstate?!?!? And he must have designed it with a crayon.”
That second cup of coffee comes back to haunt you. “I HAVE TO PEE!” But like in space, no one can hear you scream in a traffic jam.
HOOONNNKKK!!!! Some jerkwad lays on his horn. Oh THAT will make things better.
Your blood pressure spikes again. Your forehead vein begins to pulse. But there’s hope. Blue lights flicker on the horizon. Suddenly a Nissan Altima tries to get into YOUR lane. NO WAY! (Of course, its lane is blocked by a firetruck.)
Civility is dead. Someone does a Lord of the Flies and blows a conch shell. A man in a BMW convertible has a pig head on a stick.
Interstate has ground to a halt. The heart of your commute is having a heart attack.
The Waterworks Curve officially needs a plumber.
Where did all these people come from? Back before the interstate was built, we got along fine going out North State Street.