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Droning on...and on...and
on...and on...and on... |
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Lies, Lies, and more damned
lies... |
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HAMISH DIXON'S DIARY |
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Friday, November 28, 2003
HIGHWAY VENGEANCE
Most Fridays, year-round, the Dixon family abandons Gotham for its peeling Rhode Island country mansion. By this late in the season our chauffeur has come to expect a fairly relaxed drive, generally free of the SUV-renting sockless Gucci-wearing Wall Street scum who on summer weekends treat the Merritt Parkway like their own private race track and pollute the entire shore within 5 hour driving distance of New York. Things have calmed down by now, and apart from the occasional bout of mild excitement on I-95 around New Haven as squadrons of buzzing tuned-up Civics and Acuras zoom past on their single exit urban sprints, there is little to disturb the slumbers of the exhausted Dixons as they recline swaddled in butter-soft leather in the back of the Maybach. We all awoke with a start, therefore, from our Martini-inspired dreams, when the other night our chauffeur expleted at full volume and in full and glorious Technicolor® in his native Croatian, and slammed his foot on the brakes while swerving violently to avoid the spotty baseball cap-wearing jerk in the vomit-green Toyota Corolla, who had come up on our inside in a solid line of traffic and swerved in front of the forbidding prow of our glorious example of Teutonic precision engineering.
So what is it with these traffic-weaving death-dealing assholes? Some of them are young men, and perhaps, for testosteronal reasons, should be forgiven, or at least excused. But some of them are not. Some of them are women; some of them are middle-aged viagra dependents; some of them, for heaven’s sake, even have kids in the car. And they get there no faster: There’s a line of traffic, all moving at 70 in both lanes, and for the sake of what can never be better than a two or three minute reduction in journey time, they risk everything – not just their own worthless necks, but the arguably higher value ones of those around them.
When the worst of them are at it, I think of that photograph from the Vietnam war, the one of the South Vietnamese officer putting a bullet through the temple of a kneeling man, and I think that if only the same could be done to these massively more deserving homicidal tosspots the world would be a better place. The side of I-95 would be littered with their slowly decaying corpses, prey of turkey vultures, from Miami to wherever I-95 runs out, somewhere, I guess, North of Boston. It would be like something out of one of Ken Russell’s less restrained movies. Summary justice. Quick. Not too painful. Exemplary. (And you could, if you were feeling expansive, add to them all those drivers from New Jersey who clog the streets of Manhattan without bothering to find out that in the city turning right on red is wrong.)
It’s not an entirely serious thought. I am in fact a man of such moral cowardice that I find it almost impossible to put a mortally road-wounded dog or squirrel out of its misery, let alone to bring down the curtain on the worthless life of a speeding moron. But the sudden surge of asshole activity around the holiday has threatened to reignite my fury, and if it weren’t for the fact that I am blessed with wealth on a scale that most of those who are likely to read this would be incapable of understanding, I think, I really do think, that I might be tempted to nip down to K-Mart and buy myself a nice little rifle and go out asshole hunting. As it is, I shall pull down the blinds on the Maybach, pour myself and the wife another cocktail, and leave it up to Slobodan to deal with them.
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and on...and on...and on...and on
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