Hell On Wheels
It figures. It just fucking figures. The first time all break that I went downtown, I hit one of Atlanta's famous metal plates and got a flat. Middle of the fucking afternoon, and I hadn't even gotten to where I was going. So I rode Johnny-5 over to Kaufman Tire, took the necessary photographs, and turned my boy in blue over to the greasemonkeys.
"Two hours," they told me. I gawked. What did they expect me to do with two hours?
I found myself in the worst shopping establishment in the world. If you'll all please look at the sign, I'd like to note that almost every store that could concievably have reason for a drive-thru window, had one; I was stranded, on foot, in a place where people will only leave their cars if they absolutely must.
Fan-fucking-tastic.
For those of you who aren't familiar with the intersection of Cheshire Bridge and LaVista, please consult my bird's eye illustration of the area :
I surveyed my options, and found only disappointment. I could eat lunch again, seek employment, get my nails done, buy beads (BEADS! FUCKING BEADS! Why is this a store?), or get my hair done; tempted as I was by Rey Ronaldo, I bought a pack of cigarettes at the CVS and started sifting through my phonebook.
The simple-minded might say that I "don't have many friends." I wouldn't expect them to understand that it is quite the opposite; not many friends have me. Semantics aside, most of the people in my phone live far, far away, in places where they fill in potholes, instead of covering them with sharp metal rectangles. I called Alan, who doesn't live too far from there, but he didn't answer.
My options were depleted. I called Carl.
I don't hate Carl. This is, maybe, the highest compliment he can hope to recieve from me as long as my frontal lobe remains online and unaltered. He was a good sport about everything, said he'd pick me up and I could loaf at his apartment until the car was ready, "as long as you don't mind video games." I gagged a little, but he wasn't there to see it.
Just as I sat down in Carl's apartment, Kaufman called to tell me the rim of the wheel was bent, and it would take a day to replace it. I gawked, while Carl and his roommate, Zak, tried to guess what the bad news was.
I don't blame Carl, and I don't blame myself. I blame the City of Atlanta. It's their fault that my tire got popped, my wheel got bent, I got stuck in a mongrel excuse for a shopping center, had to hang out with Carl all afternoon, and couldn't get picked up until 11. I hold Mayor Shirley Franklin personally responsible for my hardship, and I will demand full retribution.
I knew I never should have left Alpharetta. It just fucking figures.
That is all.
"Two hours," they told me. I gawked. What did they expect me to do with two hours?
I found myself in the worst shopping establishment in the world. If you'll all please look at the sign, I'd like to note that almost every store that could concievably have reason for a drive-thru window, had one; I was stranded, on foot, in a place where people will only leave their cars if they absolutely must.
Fan-fucking-tastic.
For those of you who aren't familiar with the intersection of Cheshire Bridge and LaVista, please consult my bird's eye illustration of the area :
I surveyed my options, and found only disappointment. I could eat lunch again, seek employment, get my nails done, buy beads (BEADS! FUCKING BEADS! Why is this a store?), or get my hair done; tempted as I was by Rey Ronaldo, I bought a pack of cigarettes at the CVS and started sifting through my phonebook.
The simple-minded might say that I "don't have many friends." I wouldn't expect them to understand that it is quite the opposite; not many friends have me. Semantics aside, most of the people in my phone live far, far away, in places where they fill in potholes, instead of covering them with sharp metal rectangles. I called Alan, who doesn't live too far from there, but he didn't answer.
My options were depleted. I called Carl.
I don't hate Carl. This is, maybe, the highest compliment he can hope to recieve from me as long as my frontal lobe remains online and unaltered. He was a good sport about everything, said he'd pick me up and I could loaf at his apartment until the car was ready, "as long as you don't mind video games." I gagged a little, but he wasn't there to see it.
Just as I sat down in Carl's apartment, Kaufman called to tell me the rim of the wheel was bent, and it would take a day to replace it. I gawked, while Carl and his roommate, Zak, tried to guess what the bad news was.
I don't blame Carl, and I don't blame myself. I blame the City of Atlanta. It's their fault that my tire got popped, my wheel got bent, I got stuck in a mongrel excuse for a shopping center, had to hang out with Carl all afternoon, and couldn't get picked up until 11. I hold Mayor Shirley Franklin personally responsible for my hardship, and I will demand full retribution.
I knew I never should have left Alpharetta. It just fucking figures.
That is all.
posted by Alfonzo Debussy | 7:05 PM
1 Comments:
My right to free speech, Burn in hell and take the slime bags who conceived you!
Post a Comment
<< Home