I live for2 freeway traffic.
I wake up every morning secure in the knowledge that the new day will
soon be filled with blaring horns, overheated engines, lost tempers,
suffocating3 tailgaters,4
and the like. I can't help but smile. After all, I'm a Californian—Southern
Californian to be exact—and it is my duty as such to proudly be a dedicated
member of the Golden State's most cherished tradition: Gridlock!5
Words cannot begin to describe the feeling one gets as they idly sit in
an ever-growing line of cars on a freeway entrance ramp. Nor can mere
words symbolize the intense emotions that build in each individual in
line as they watch the signal light allow only one car at a time enter
the freeway.
Suddenly, with complete strangers, a person is able to release the
anxieties and pressures that are so often contained within the home.
Through various four-letter words and hand gestures, drivers can share
with one another the stress that would otherwise remain bottled up inside.
It's almost as if they are there, in the jam-packed procession of automobiles,
to counsel each other, to share a mutual understanding of the trials
and tribulations6 this life has to offer. Why
pay a psychiatrist's7 bill when all it takes
is a near-empty tank of gas and a slow-moving elderly person in the
passing lane to get to the root of one's emotional isolation? Instead,
just pass Grandpa Snail,8 flip him off,9
and enjoy what the rest of the day has in store.
Tell me, is there any twelve-step program10
as simple as this?
I must depart now; the clock on the wall says it is nearly 5:00 P.M.,
and I don't want to be late for my rush hour support group. Perhaps you
could join us? The more the merrier, we always say!
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