Saturday, September 21, 2013

Road Rage Meets 'Roid Rage

The good ol' U.S. of A. is full of crazy, right now.

Rich, entitled, me-monkeys, looking out for themselves and (but, just barely) their peers. Everyone else be damned.

Witness, today's insanity in The House of Representatives, where a bunch of rich Republicans voted to strip $40 billion from the SNAP program so that they and their equally rich cronies can hang on to their tax breaks.


Working class and working poor, frustrated, angry and, in many cases desperate, wondering what the fuck happened to "The American Dream."


The whole thing is a powder keg and the only thing preventing most of us from going all Guy Fawkes on some asses is the fact that debt, hunger and desperation are still preferable to prison.

Your Uncle PC witnessed an incident, today, that sums it all up.

First, let me set the scene.

There is a strange and badly designed intersection in Los Angeles' Wilshire district that The Blog crosses everyday on his way home from work.

                                                                      You are here.

S. Highland Ave. makes a strange turn into Edgewood Place, just past Olympic Blvd.

On that semi-corner is a 7-Eleven™, with a driveway that is just a few feet south of the intersection.

The four lane Highland Ave. bottlenecks into the two lane Edgewood Place...

... at the intersection...

... where cars are trying to get out of the 7-Eleven™ parking lot.

It's a mess.

It takes an ass-load of politeness and courtesy to keep this intersection from becoming a perpetual cluster-fuck.

And, to the credit of humanity, nine out of ten times, politeness and courtesy wins.

But then, there is that tenth time.

You see, the residential neighborhoods of the Wilshire district are pretty wealthy.

Built in the 1930s and '40s by the movie stars of the time, the area is now occupied by television producers, semi-successful screenwriters and other not quite rich enough to live in Bel Aire or Malibu, but still pretty rich people.

But, not so rich that they don't, occasionally, lower themselves to stop at 7-Eleven™ for, I don't know, a Slurpee™ or some Slim Jims™, I guess.

And when those people are ready to exit that parking lot... well... they want to get out fast before, I am guessing, the shame of being seen at a 7-Eleven™ kicks in.

And that is when things get ugly.

A couple of years ago, The Blog had one of those encounters.

I was just trying to head southwest on Edgewood when a, (I'm guessing here,) 60-something woman, who was not, but could have been played by...

                                                                      Holland Taylor

... behind the wheel of a silver Mercedes, felt entitled to exit the parking lot, before I, in my Mazda Tribute, passed on the main thoroughfare.

After a stand-off that felt like it went on for 20 minutes (but probably not) I signaled to the driver behind me that I was going to have to back up a few feet so that "Not Holland Taylor" could get wherever the fuck she had to go.

As I backed up and she inched out in front of me, she raised one perfectly manicured finger at me.

(Imagine The Blog's avatar with red nail polish.)

Which brings us to today.

As I was passing the 7-Eleven™ driveway, I had to swerve to avoid a red Porsche that blasted out of the parking lot like a SpaceX™ rocket.

                                                Not the actual Porsche, but a simulation.

I was pissed, but thankful that a near crisis had been averted.

But, the red Porsche cut off the guy in the silver Toyota Echo that was behind me.

                                             Not the actual Toyota Echo, but a simulation.

The driver of the Echo laid on his horn, then, leaning out of his window, shook his fist while unleashing a barrage of invective aimed at the Porsche Guy.

A block down the road, we were all stopped at a traffic light.

And that is when shit got real.

Porsche Guy got out of his car and headed for Echo Guy.

To no-one's surprise, Porsche Guy was a buffed out, gym rat, douchebag, with his shirt completely unbuttoned to show off his pecs and six-pack abs.

                                              Not the actual douchebag, but a simulation.

(The PC is going to the wall here, and making the assumption that the red Porsche™ was compensating for his steroid shriveled balls and tiny penis. I report. You decide.)

Porsche Guy reaches into Echo Guy's window.

At this point, The Blog reaches for his iPhone™.

Porsche Guy then opens the Echo Guy's door and grabs at him.

This is where, I am ashamed to admit, I encountered an ethical dilemma.

"Do I use my phone to call 911? Or, do I use the video camera to capture the incident and upload it to YouTube™?"

At this point, the light turns green, Douchebag Porsche Guy returns to his car and makes an awkward three point U-turn and heads back in the opposite direction.

Rendering my dilemma moot.

At the next light, a couple of blocks later, Echo Guy, (who, it turns out, is a skinny bespectacled, nerdy guy,)  pulls up beside me and rolls his window down.

"Did you see that?" Echo Guy asked. "Did you fucking see that?"

"Yes, I did." I replied. "He's a rich, entitled, dickless, douche nozzle. I'm with you there. But, Dude! What the fuck were you thinking? You came this close to getting seriously hurt! Dial back the anger. Do what I do and swear at him from behind the safety of your windshield."

The light turned green and we drove our separate ways.

Echo Guy was fed up with entitled assholes. I get it.

But seriously.

It's just not worth grievous bodily injury.

I don't know if he took my advice to heart. I hope that he did.

If he didn't, I fear that I will be seeing him on the news, broken or dead, one of these days, soon.

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