Road Rageaholics Anonymous

Sorry for the lack of updates. Ideally, I'd love to blather on about things on here every day but SHOCKINGLY I don't have the time. For those of you who know me well, me not having time for the Internet means now you can now enjoy ice skating in hell. It doesn't help that my Macbook's LCD screen is cracked out and my HP is inflicted with a corrupted .dll. But being electronically unequipped is kind of freeing and makes me more mysterious, right?

Today's post will be short(er) and bitter. Today is not "my day," whatever that expression really means. On my morning commute I saw Santa Claus on a bike which was really exciting, but the presence of several gargantuan super sized SUVs blocked the view of my cellphone lens. I had to sadly watch him shrink to oblivion in my rearview mirror as I drove on.

Can I just for a moment bitch about SUVs in general? Thank you. They are always driven by people who lack the competence to drive in Los Angeles to begin with, usually by overripe trophy wives with PDAs held to their left ears by diamond encrusted acrylic tipped claws. Anybody with a spark of intelligence should know to at least put whoever it is on speakerphone, it's much more stealth, but the German symbols fused to the hoods of their steel chariots make these drivers feel that heeding the law is an unnecessary inconvenience. They haven't yet figured out the whole turning signal feature, drive the wrong way down one-way alleys, always park in compact spaces, and block your view of everything from devastating six-car pileups to Santas gone green.

While I am on the subject of things that piss me off, can I express how sick I am of jay walkers? Like everything else in this world, there is an art to jay walking. The right way: traffic is stopped due to another unnecessary construction project in the middle of Santa Monica Boulevard at 2:00 pm. By all means, proceed, I get it. The wrong way: Clutching your L'Occitane (how do you pronounce that?) and Neimans bags, you trot across Beverly Boulevard at a treadmill speed of 0.3 in your Brian Atwoods and make me miss my left-hand turn as you grin in what you hope is a sheepish and charming manner with your collagen stuffed smackers. You make me sick. First of all I would appreciate those shoes so so much more than you do, and second, I am now wishing I lived in Toon Town where I could proceed to mow you over, reverse, repeat, reverse, repeat and then watch you peel yourself off the asphalt like a sticky fruit rollup while I laugh evilly in my Jetta. Then I'd steal your shoes. Does this mean I need therapy? Listening to Limp Bizkit makes me feel better. Remember them? I used to belong to the Limp Bizkit fan forums when I was obsssssssseessed with Fred Durst. A guy told me he'd give me Fred Durst's email if I sent him a pic of my ta-tas. I google image searched and found a suitable pair, which I traded for the email address, chocolatecoveredstarfish@aol.com (yeah really). Thank you Google and irresponsible girls with web cams and Internet access. I know it wasn't the Real Fred Durst. It was probably Brian Peppers. Google him. You're welcome :)