So after nine hours of crawling through the monotony of the Interstate 5 and slogging through the freeways of LA, I’m back in SoCal for winter break.

I know what you’re thinking. “Nine hours? From Berkeley to LA? My grandmother walks faster than that .”

Well, just hold on there. The drive is usually a zippy five hour affair. This time I was dropping Michelle off in Newport first, an accumulated extra 90 miles, and this was, keep in mind, plowing through the mass of angry commuters on the 405 at rush-hour’s accursed zenith .

Anyone who has first-hand knowledge of driving in LA knows that it is a delicate dance (and when I say “delicate dance,” I mean of course the kind of delicate dance that goes on between Big Bubba on Cell Block F and the skinny, frightened-looking new fish), and they are, at the thought of such an endeavor, likely now cringing the way guys do when they see another male taking a shot to the groin. Ah, the visceral sympathy of intense testicular pain and pulsating, halting immobility in a sea of stops and go’s.

I have only this left to say …

To the miserable prick who was in that Nissan X-Terra yaking blissfully on his cellphone and weaving in and out of the double yellow lines of the carpool lane (while he’s the only guy in the friggin’ car) right in front of me, necessitating much slammage of the brakes on my part: I swear to Jehovah, Yahweh, Allah, Vishnu, Zeus, Odin, Baal and David Koresh, I will find you, and then I will kill you in the most painful way I can think of: by forcing you to listen to the entire discography of Barbra Streisand. Including the narrated liner notes. You have brought this on yourself. Your pleas for mercy shall fall on deaf ears.

last update : 23-5-2018

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