Boy have I got a beef.
Okay, not a filet mignon kind of a rave, but even as a metaphorical seventy-three percent lean hamburger kind of complaint it's legitimate enough to write home about.
Look, folks. I know we got clobbered with a foot and a half of snow. I get that the roads, though plowed, still have very little room on the shoulders due to the plows displacing the heavy precipitate there. What I don't comprehend is the need to hold up traffic, by means of driving at twenty miles per hour in a thirty-five mile per hour zone, because Marge just knows that the first ice cube-sized piece of ice her 1978 Subaru's tires contact will cause her to careen out of control, thereby striking two other cars, barrel rolling down a long hill, and bursting into flames Ala Rockford Files reruns.
Don't get me wrong. I'm all for traffic safety, especially when icy conditions prevail. In this case, the ice had turned into water no later than nine A.M. That's why Larry, who was positioned two vehicles behind me in his ominous black Dodge Ram four wheel drive, decided to echo our sentiments by honking his one-hundred forty decibel horn. Who knew that would motivate you to accelerate at a rate replicating top fuel dragsters at the Winternationals? Don't worry, though, Marge: those of us whom you were delaying decided to turn the other cheek. In fact, Larry and I decided to take up a collection to pay for the speeding ticket you got when you decided to average out your elapsed time on Penn Forest Boulevard by attaining fifty-five miles per hour.
Being of Irish descent, I'm familiar with flashes of temper. In no time I was over the little bit of frustration the poor woman left me with by the time I got to the traffic light at the intersection of 419 and McVitty Road.
That peace of mind lasted for two and a half minutes. It was at that moment when the fifteen or so drivers behind Ralph slowly became aware of something which the Kia driver didn't: the traffic light was locked green for drivers on 419. We poor McVittyites were stuck with an apparent eternally red light.
Ralph, of course, wanted to turn left.
While the rest of us did a slow boil reminiscent of CIA psychological endurance training, the poor man at the front of the pack endured approximately five car horns, several irate motorists voicing their opinion of his decision to turn McVitty into a single file parking lot, and a chiding from someone's Weimaraner. What I originally thought was the sun bursting through the clouds turned out to be the light bulb flashing over the man's head as he eventually realized that April will be here before that light changes. In a spectacular display of self-sacrifice and bravado, the intrepid Ralph thrust his sedan into the middle of the intersection and went for broke. Cars approaching from both directions swerved, with professional deftness, to avoid our leader. It turns out that the other fifteen of us had business which required a right turn. While no one was shouting praises to Ralph at that moment, yelling of a certain kind was still being issued by at least three of us.
I'm thankful that I was able to navigate my way through that whole affair, not that I had anything more important to do than head to the drive thru at Burger King. The King has re released the Rodeo Burger. Good stuff. It was worth the aggravation to get there.
I could have taken Brambleton Avenue, but decided not to.
Too many drivers were in bad moods.
Okay, not a filet mignon kind of a rave, but even as a metaphorical seventy-three percent lean hamburger kind of complaint it's legitimate enough to write home about.
Look, folks. I know we got clobbered with a foot and a half of snow. I get that the roads, though plowed, still have very little room on the shoulders due to the plows displacing the heavy precipitate there. What I don't comprehend is the need to hold up traffic, by means of driving at twenty miles per hour in a thirty-five mile per hour zone, because Marge just knows that the first ice cube-sized piece of ice her 1978 Subaru's tires contact will cause her to careen out of control, thereby striking two other cars, barrel rolling down a long hill, and bursting into flames Ala Rockford Files reruns.
Don't get me wrong. I'm all for traffic safety, especially when icy conditions prevail. In this case, the ice had turned into water no later than nine A.M. That's why Larry, who was positioned two vehicles behind me in his ominous black Dodge Ram four wheel drive, decided to echo our sentiments by honking his one-hundred forty decibel horn. Who knew that would motivate you to accelerate at a rate replicating top fuel dragsters at the Winternationals? Don't worry, though, Marge: those of us whom you were delaying decided to turn the other cheek. In fact, Larry and I decided to take up a collection to pay for the speeding ticket you got when you decided to average out your elapsed time on Penn Forest Boulevard by attaining fifty-five miles per hour.
Being of Irish descent, I'm familiar with flashes of temper. In no time I was over the little bit of frustration the poor woman left me with by the time I got to the traffic light at the intersection of 419 and McVitty Road.
That peace of mind lasted for two and a half minutes. It was at that moment when the fifteen or so drivers behind Ralph slowly became aware of something which the Kia driver didn't: the traffic light was locked green for drivers on 419. We poor McVittyites were stuck with an apparent eternally red light.
Ralph, of course, wanted to turn left.
While the rest of us did a slow boil reminiscent of CIA psychological endurance training, the poor man at the front of the pack endured approximately five car horns, several irate motorists voicing their opinion of his decision to turn McVitty into a single file parking lot, and a chiding from someone's Weimaraner. What I originally thought was the sun bursting through the clouds turned out to be the light bulb flashing over the man's head as he eventually realized that April will be here before that light changes. In a spectacular display of self-sacrifice and bravado, the intrepid Ralph thrust his sedan into the middle of the intersection and went for broke. Cars approaching from both directions swerved, with professional deftness, to avoid our leader. It turns out that the other fifteen of us had business which required a right turn. While no one was shouting praises to Ralph at that moment, yelling of a certain kind was still being issued by at least three of us.
I'm thankful that I was able to navigate my way through that whole affair, not that I had anything more important to do than head to the drive thru at Burger King. The King has re released the Rodeo Burger. Good stuff. It was worth the aggravation to get there.
I could have taken Brambleton Avenue, but decided not to.
Too many drivers were in bad moods.
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