What did I want after a 13-hour day at work? The same as anyone would. A meal, some relaxation, and a gallon of whiskey. What did I get? A TWO HOUR drive home. Normally it takes me about a half hour to get home, but tonight was special. That's one of the worst things about L.A. - horrible traffic jams for no apparent reason. I didn't see an accident, there weren't any lanes closed; it was just one of those things. The ride took one hour and 55 minutes, and according to Google Maps, I live 13 miles from work. For you liberal arts majors, that means I averaged 7 miles per hour on the way home. I could have ridden a bike home faster. If I were given cocaine, I could have walked home faster.
I got home too late to watch a movie before going to bed and starting all over again. I got home so late I didn't care about having any dinner. I got home so late I missed a phone call that could have saved the day. The only thing I had left was the hot tub. The blessed, blessed hot tub. Nothing is better at the end of a crappy day than looking up at the stars while soaking and having water jets beat on you. Those jets feel good everywhere (and I mean everywhere), but nowhere better than on the bottom of a foot that's been riding a clutch for two hours.
Even though my body was on autopilot in the tub, my brain never stops. And the quiet allowed my brain to devise many ways to get back at all the people in the traffic jam with me. Because when you're in a situation like that, you begin to hate the people in front of you, behind you, and on either side of you. They're in the same boat as you are, but you become convinced that everything is their fault. A guy in front of me pulled into the left lane at the last minute to make a turn and left his ass end in part of my lane, and I screamed things at him that implied he enjoyed relations with other people's mothers. So fresh from the hot tub, here are some things I felt like doing to all these people conspiring to keep me from getting home:
1. Making an appointment for him at a sperm bank and providing only a calendar entitled "The Ladies Of The 1984 East German Olympic Team" (not pictured: Katarina Witt.)
2. At the next red light, stealing his CDs and replacing them all with Prattle And Hum: The Best Of Bono's Between-Song Patter About Starving Africans.
3. Cutting in front of him and slowing to 3 miles per hour, keeping him from accelerating to his top speed of 7.
4. Installing Speed Racer-style saws in my car and cutting his tires to ribbons.
5. Banana in the tailpipe.