This weekend Jess' friend Tanya and her family had their annual Huge Picnic BBQ Poolside Bash, so naturally we showed up to eat our fill and play a little Apples to Apples. We never ended up getting around to the game (though I did hold my own with a win in quoits), but the food was excellent and company as good as expected. One of the attendees was a former co-worker of mine from Martin's--and one of the cooler of them at that--who informed me that I basically never existed at the store, or so they'd like to think. The same goes for my friend Angie who was still working there when I was so unceremoniously booted. She apparently has been canned as well, prompting her boyfriend to go all psycho on the people in charge and end up being carted away by the cops. Good for him: he did exactly what I constantly promised to do and then finally chickened out about when it all came around.
I guess I should be happy that I'm not being blasted all over town about my supposed indiscretion. I'd rather never have existed than deal with that mar on my personal record for the rest of my life. I've got enough hatred already bubbling up inside of me and threatening to burst out at everyone around me--I don't need more running against my tarnished excuse for a soul.
Like these girls. Ugh, these girls. About halfway through the picnic, Jess and I had to leave to go into Lancaster and let out my brother's roommate's puppy, so it didn't pee all over his new apartment. So we got into my car and headed down the highway, where we suddenly came to a complete, cold stop of traffic. Sirens blared in the distance as ambulances raced up the grass and gravel shoulder, blasting past the stopped cars to a destination unknown up ahead. Fire police followed, two leaping out of their car just behind us to scream at some guys in a Lincoln Navigator that was trying to sneak up the shoulder and get around the jam. We couldn't hear what they were screaming, but we had a good laugh as the cars ahead of us began to crawly jerkily forward.
It wasn't the first time I was stuck in this kind of traffic, so I hoped for the best for whoever was obviously caught up in a major accident up ahead (even though secretly I hoped that it would at least look exciting when we finally got there). On the way to Disney World a few years ago, traffic on the Beltway was backed up for almost an hour because a man had tried to cross the highway on foot at dusk. When we finally creeped by, there was a white sheet over a motionless figure and a pool of blood, sticky red seeping into the cloth. It was a disturbing site. So I didn't know what to expect when we finally arrived at the scene. It was not... what I expected.
Three cars were on the side of the road, twisted and mangled, and outside of them stood a gaggle of high school girls in cheerleading t-shirts. The cops were checking one over, making sure her face wasn't cut up. The rest stood, talking to another cop. Taking in the scene, it wasn't hard to do the math. And I was suddenly angry. These girls, in their tricked-out Jetta and Mercedes-Benz SLK (the third car I couldn't recognize), had obviously been racing, fucking around with each other on the highway. The damage done to the cars made so much plain to see--the front driver's side of one smashed in, now virtually a part of the back passenger's side of the other, long scrapes down the doors of each. In an amazing display of fuck-wittery, these richy-bitch prom queen-types had managed to demolish a total of near $100,000 in beautiful German-machined automobile--and hold up my fucking day.
I don't wish death upon many people (other than that guy from the FreeCreditReport.com commercials at least), but a serious maiming wouldn't have been bad for these spoiled brats. With a lack of respect for themselves, for their idiot parents' investments, and ultimately, everyone else on the road, I was hoping for at least a concussion or two. Sure, it probably makes me a bad guy, but who didn't know that already? I mean, Johnny Nice-Guy ain't exactly gettin' fired from his job for sexy-style harassin', am I right?
I just don't get it. I hate to sound like a crotchety old man, because I really don't think I am one (yet), but damnit. Kids these days! They are terrible and they misbehave and worst of all, they're stupid. I was hardly a perfect kid (though I think my parents still owe me big time for never having to rescue me from the drunk tank like everyone else had to do), but I misbehaved in at least a semi-responsible manner. I certainly never tried to drag race down 222 and smash the SLK Kompressor I'd gotten two weeks earlier for my 16th birthday. Then again, maybe that's because my first car was a Chevy Astro Van.