October 10th, 2008 - Fuck You Number 3

In a world plagued by Burger Kings, Blackberries, and the internet, it is no wonder at all we are becoming increasingly intolerant of wait lines; apparently wherever we come into contact with them. Sometimes, they're a line at the grocery store. Sometimes, you will encounter them when on the phone. And every-so-often, a wait line will present itself in the form of a little old lady wheeling herself across the street while you are waiting to make a left-hand turn.

Recently I was standing on the balcony of my downtown condominium with a high-ball of Crown Royal in one hand, and a lit cigarette in the other. There was a slight chill to the air as I inhaled, and the moon had begun to peek out from behind a neighboring building, like the nipples of a braless woman in a meat locker. As I peered down onto the street from above, I noticed an elderly woman staring at the illuminated red hand instructing her that it was not her time to cross. Right then, it flipped to the glowing white man, and she began to push her wheelchair and herself through the river of asphalt. She worked those wheels, diligently, and with great haste. It was obvious that despite her age, she was alert enough to recognize she had a limited amount of time to reach the curb on the other side.

Approximately halfway through her journey, I heard the sound of a car horn. A tremor shot through the woman, nearly paralyzing her with fear. I looked fifteen feet to her immediate right, and there sat a Mexican man, maybe thirty-something, in his shimmering black SUV waiting to turn into the lane presently occupied by the woman and her chair. The sound of the horn stopped, and the man began yelling at the woman, like an officer trying to project his voice over the top of gun-fire, and hand grenades. Screaming at her to increase her speed.

I was appalled. 

Fuck you, impatience. Fuck feeling like you have to have anything and everything, whenever, and wherever you want it.

Cheers.