OK, this is just a humble, work-a-day, traffic rant, but it’s been pissing me off since I moved here three years ago and you’d think that people would have evolved, even slightly, in the intervening time to behave in a slightly less than shit-for-brains manner than a common, vole-sucking peckerhead.
There’s an intersection a quarter mile from my house, Mass Ave and Rt 16 to be exact. Each road entering the intersection has three clearly marked lanes; left for turning (wait for it) left, middle for going straight, and right for going straight or turning right. Pretty simple, huh? Not really rocket science for the motor going public, one would think.
Well, for reasons that still elude my grasp, going from Arlington to Cambridge across Rt 16 seems to scamble the neurochemicals in many people’s brains, causing them to imaging they are in some sort of Daliesque dream sequence where there’s no such thing as straight lines, merging traffic, of the fucking common sense God gave to Golden Retrievers so they don’t end up choking themselves on their leashes every day in an attempt to bark at their own parasites.
You see, here I am, sitting quietly in the lefthand turn lane trying to find a radiostation that isn’t playing the same warmed over 1970’s top ten hits while claiming they play “Classic Rock” waiting the approximately 11 minutes for the left turn arrow to arrive. Hey, there are lots of combinations of traffic here, so I can deal with the wait. Finally, the green arrow of my salvation has arrived! Hallelujah! The line moves forward, one car, two cars, then inexplicably, it stops. Is an ambulance coming? Perhaps a wounded sparrow in the roadway? Alas no, it’s the dumbass in front of me who thought he would jump into the left turn lane and avoid all the cars (silly fools) waiting their turns in the two, count 'em, two other lanes designated for going straight.
Naturally, I am displeased. Another 11 minute wait is not high on my list of activities for the morning. I gently inform the glob of plaque in the arteries of America’s transportation system that he has performed a faux-pas by tootling on my horn and using familiar hand guestures. He pulls forward 6 inches, hoping that this will appease my wrath, and eagerly awaits the light change. Via more assertive signals I attempt to convey the message that, no, this is not a satisfactory solution, and I am considering one that involves two fellows named Guido, a soldering iron, and one GI Joe action figure with the Kung Fu Grip ™.
Apparently this penetrates his posterior, reaching his head, which is convienently stored there. Does he decide to turn left and perhaps take another route to his destination? Or turn into the gas station across the way and take some time to review the Mass Driving Regulations? No, he squirts forward into the intersection, as unwanted and unloved as writhing sperm on a prom dress, thus sharing my annoyence with dozens more people and potentially causing a head on collision with that turning delivery truck.
I make my left turn, seeth a bit, and continue on my way, safe in the knowledge that at least one quarter of the time that I need to make that turn, another fucknut with no concept of how close he comes to being gutted like a mackeral and left for the seagulls in the Fresh Pond Mall.
Ah, Boston drivers. Life is good.
