You see, we have something in LA called a “traffic problem”.
Well, it’s more like a 24-hour-per-day-vehicular-clusterfuck.
In fact, it’s gotten so bad that traffic at 10PM is as bad as 6PM because they decided that at 9PM they’d just, you know, alternate shutdowns of major on and off ramps. For shits’n’giggles.
You know I’m not the kind of person to sit idly by when there’s a problem.
When things go south, I’ll put the fkkn Mayor on notice:
Thus far, his solution has been to increase the number of people who stand in busy intersections at rush hour from 0 to about 5, which helps because people are slow and stupid during traffic and need someone in a lime green vest with jaunty hand signals to get their rears in gear.
You’re welcome, Angelenos.
But even I, your humble scribe *gouges into iPad screen with quill pen* cannot stop the Godzilla that visits LA at least twice a year:
trust no bitch
Last time he attacked the Brentwood-Santa Monica border, leaving a wake of disappointed illegal immigrant students and rich people in his wake.
He decided to take on the heart of the Westside, right next to Beverly Hills.
At 3:44PM, I counted 15 cop cars in a one mile stretch of Beverly Glen Boulevard, right near the embassies (the French one, where the flag out front is surprisingly not just white.
My first thought: who’s the foreign prick who’s visiting?
My second thought: some high-falutin douche is in town and fkking up our traffic.
I googled “visits LA today”, and sure enough…
And yes, all major roads near my domicile were about to be closed in…13 minutes.
I parked quickly and alerted everyone, like a frightened citizen of Tokyo.
“STAY AT WORK!”
“IT ISN’T SAFE!”
“ORDER FROM THAT PITA RESTAURANT DOWN THE STREET, YOU KNOW, THE ONE WITH THE GOOD HUMMUS, AND HAVE THEM DELIVER.”
“TELL MY WIFE SHE WAS ALWAYS A FRIGID BITCH”
I got to my roof, because if I’ve learned anything from the Weather Channel, when a tsunami hits, you should always seek elevation.
I perched and waited, like the bird that craps on my window.
Neighbors told tales of how they had to park on the main street and walk–WALK–to their apartment (what is this, Eastern Europe?!)
And sure enough, about an hour and a half later, a black limousine goes speeding up Beverly Glen, while exactly two people weakly yelled “woo!”
That’s it. That was it. The monster had passed–but spared no one.
if you squint closely enough by the 76 station you can see the tiny smattering of meek-voiced supporters facing the motorcade.
Traffic still snaked around streets as entire neighborhoods were sealed.
The President was picking up an award from Steven Spielberg this trip, and everyone knows Steven Spielberg can’t just up and leave to go meet the President in DC to give him an award.
The damage was done. Good, honest, working people’s entire days were ruined. The people who paid for this motorcade had to wait for it.
It’s like the CEO of a company having to wait two hours to exit the parking garage because Jim, the intern in accounting, has to crawl out the driveway.
In LA, we don’t fear tornadoes, hurricanes, or even earthquakes.
We fear presidential visits.