Gridlock

I live by a dock where cars are dumped off daily. Hourly. Mercilessly. They pass my street like I-Robots, half-wrapped, en route to Processing. It's starting to feel like an elevator full of sumo wrestlers.

"Let me ooouuut!"

Why do we call it rush hour when no one goes anywhere? Like rush hour takes only one hour. Maybe we should have a slow hour -- 3 a.m. to 4 a.m. except weekends.

Last week I merged into traffic so hairy that people were actually backing off the freeway. And while I myself suffer from gridlock claustrophobia, once you're physically on the freeway ... that's pretty much a done deal. Do not pass Go; do not collect $200.

"Freeway." Good place for a "rush hour." The only difference between a freeway and side streets is that the streets have a fast lane -- for bicyclists. I've sat on the 101 so long that we could have used a Las Vegas yo-yo girl...

"Cigarettes? Soda? Candy?"

For those of you in the market, these conga-line cars are the same ones that advertise "freeway miles only." So it goes.

Problem with gridlock is that people are overheating. Road rage is worst in Arizona, which is -- coincidentally, I'm sure -- the hottest place to live outside the surface of the sun. I've never understood why people move to Arizona. They always say the same thing: "My home was so cheap." Yes, but when you walk outside, YOU'RE IN ARIZONA.

I myself don't carry a car gun, but I can see it. Once you've breathed someone's fumes for an hour, you start to wonder why they're out in the first place. Is their reason good enough? During "rush hour," traffic should be limited to women whose water has broken. And me.


While awaiting legislation, we could phase in car horns that reflect varying degrees of emotion. The first horn will be polite, as in, "Hellooo? Excuse me." The second will be more condescending like a foghorn. "Jaaack-hole." Then, when someone really gets in our grill, we pull the chord and release the flatulent cargo vessel "HOOOOONK."

Or maybe we'll go with car-tones to match our cell phone ringtones. I've always wanted a horn on the back of my car to play this riff from C&C Music Factory: "Chill, baby, baby, baby, chill, baby, wait."

The point is that that something must be done to relieve gridlock tedium before we all go Arizonan. People everywhere are coming home and collapsing by their spouses...

"You wouldn't believe all the bickering and finger-pointing and manipulation."

"Rough day at the office, huh?"

"I was talking about the commute."

Remember "Eight Is Enough"? Maybe that program sent the wrong message. Maybe it should have been called "Eight Is Way Too Friggen Many." If those children had eight children and those children had eight children ... there'd be freeway miles only.

Of course, we could all go back to horses. I can see a day when millions of heavily armed Hummer Ponies line our freeways, bucking and neighing and randomly relieving themselves (and you thought exhaust fumes were bad today).

For my part, I'm staying home until science perfects the telepod and we all materialize instantly at our destinations. Like Brundelflies. In the meantime, you can find me at home whistling along with my latest car-tone: "Sittin' on the dock of the bay watching the caaaars roll away..."