Fuckin-A

I’m driving on the freeway after a particularly pleasant evening, when I hit a mad build-up of traffic. Now, keep in mind that it’s 11:15 pm. I should have a clear shot home.

But no. That’s not how life works.

At first, I assumed that it was some dumbass accident. You all know, some cum-stain driving his civic like it was a motherfuckin’ 1.6 million dollar Bugatti and he was Vin Diesel.

But, no… I started seeing traffic cones. I started seeing spotlights. I started seeing lighted direction lights. That could only mean ONE thing…

Goddamn Caltrans.

So I drove at a snails pace--wait, no. I saw a snail on the side of the rode BEATING me (he was laughing and flipping me off as I ate his dust).

The worst part, THE FUCKING WORST PART, was that they decided to cut down the 5 freeway (for those of you out-of-towners, that is the damn “main-vain” of the west coast. It travels from the Mexican border to the border of Canada.) to two lanes!

TWO FUCKING LANES!!!

There were two things keeping me from bursting my carotid artery popping and spraying a jet of blood from my neck into the number two lane. One, I had my daily dose of alcohol to ride me through my rage and the assumption that those bastards were working on the road. It’s feasible; 11 pm on a Thursday night…

Well fuck me silly with a bent hanger! No work. These ass-tards blocked off a HUGE chunk of the road for no reason at all. NOTHING WAS GOING ON! It turned a twenty-five minute ride (tops) into something more like a forty-five minute voyage into slow torment.

Sometimes, I think Caltrans is just trying to fuck with me. Blocking off roads. Having “detours” that start on the coast and spill out somewhere on the ass-end of the valley. It’s like they’re herding me into the center of the hedge maze.

What I want to do is paint my face with the blood of a few emo‘s that I took out earlier, kick the fucking door off my tiny car, drop a cinder block on the gas, strap my belt on my steering wheel to steady my steed and tip the sumbitch on two wheels. I could then climb on the side facing into the heavens and pull my HUGE blazing Zweihänder from the rear seat (my white hot rage being the fuel that lights the blade on fire).

I would roar at the top of my lungs and swing the flaming sword over my head like that badass St. Michel, hurdling through the construction zone and cleaving heads. “I M THE WAR GOD OF CALIFORNIA! I AM MARS! I AM MURUGAN! I AM TYR! ” I would howl. “You DARE impede my journey!”

“DIE WHERE YOU STAND, FOUL CREATURES OF REFLECTION TAPE AND DAY GLOW ORANGE VESTS!”

What I’ll probably do is write some pathetic, angry blog…