I Got Lucky In Kentucky
Well, I think I’ve recovered from my Velveeta-Sausage packing. Beating. I mean. . .forget it. She knows. You missed it. You missed it all. Time to buy new shoes.
I think by now, I’ve established myself as one of the most irresponsible, unfortunate, violated, more unsanitary travelers this side of the Atlantic. So like any overweight, thong-bearing German tourist sunbathing their hairy, white breasts on a foreign beach, I’m struggling with the need to roll my ass over into a less compromising, more socially responsible situation. So. Yesterday, I opt to leave for my flight Two (2) hours in advance. Being that I can make it from my home to the parking garage in 29 minutes, I’m confident that my Italian, hairless, fair-colored breasts can make it there with time for a leisurely dinner.
Like Asians and dairy products, it wasn’t meant to be.
In an effort to describe the Denver highway system and avoid pointing fingers, I will use appropriate metaphors. Pull my finger.
While we’re definitely not the worst traffic system, we’re certainly one of the least efficient. Let’s call our North-South corridor, “Tell-Your-Mom-To-Grab-Her-Ankles.” Cause even though we’re 6-years into a major reconstruction, it’s pretty much jam-packed 24-hours a day. Unless it’s closed for nightly maintenance, which occurs about once a week. As for our East-West corridor, let’s call that one, “Horny-Special-Ed-Class-Visits-Petting-Zoo.” Cause frankly, it’s pretty much always a screeching, bloody, retarded mess.
And then there’s the toll-way that runs waaay East of the city, connecting the south end of Tell-Your-Mom-To-Grab-Her-Ankles, to the east side of Horny-Special-Ed-Class-Visits-Petting-Zoo. We’ll call this toll-way, “I-Tag-Teamed-Your-Younger-Sister.” Cause like any 8th Grade, budding young woman, it’s a sure score. And while the traffic is steady and continuous, she’s new enough to be slick and efficient, but smart enough to charge a nominal fee for the ride, as well as use of most entrances and exits.
As always, I hop on I-Tag-Teamed-Your-Younger-Sister. It’s the quickest and it’s right outside my front door. About 2 miles south of Horny-Special-Ed-Class-Visits-Petting-Zoo, (10 miles from the airport), traffic comes to a complete stop. Apparently Horny-Special-Ed-Class-Visits-Petting-Zoo was STILL closed from this bitch. So the 3.5 million people trying to get out of the city via Horny-Special-Ed-Class-Visits-Petting-Zoo are diverted onto I-Tag-Teamed-Your-Younger-Sister. Not by the traffic lights. Not by la policia. But by workers from the Department of Transportation. Who are clearly more qualified than our state patrol.
For over 45 minutes, my car calculates an Average Miles Per Hour of 2 (Two).
Mother. Fucker.
Complicated by parking difficulties (not a lack of spaces, just physically parking my car I’ll tell you later,) a slow, painful limp dragging my luggage to the terminal, and a complete intellectual breakdown in the already understaffed security line, I not only miss my leisurely dinner, but I miss the 2-hour special of Prison Break.
Alas, there is some good news. I am writing what could arguably be the longest, most boring post in short history of Nine-Seven from lovely Pittsburgh. The Sunshine State.
I think by now, I’ve established myself as one of the most irresponsible, unfortunate, violated, more unsanitary travelers this side of the Atlantic. So like any overweight, thong-bearing German tourist sunbathing their hairy, white breasts on a foreign beach, I’m struggling with the need to roll my ass over into a less compromising, more socially responsible situation. So. Yesterday, I opt to leave for my flight Two (2) hours in advance. Being that I can make it from my home to the parking garage in 29 minutes, I’m confident that my Italian, hairless, fair-colored breasts can make it there with time for a leisurely dinner.
Like Asians and dairy products, it wasn’t meant to be.
In an effort to describe the Denver highway system and avoid pointing fingers, I will use appropriate metaphors. Pull my finger.
While we’re definitely not the worst traffic system, we’re certainly one of the least efficient. Let’s call our North-South corridor, “Tell-Your-Mom-To-Grab-Her-Ankles.” Cause even though we’re 6-years into a major reconstruction, it’s pretty much jam-packed 24-hours a day. Unless it’s closed for nightly maintenance, which occurs about once a week. As for our East-West corridor, let’s call that one, “Horny-Special-Ed-Class-Visits-Petting-Zoo.” Cause frankly, it’s pretty much always a screeching, bloody, retarded mess.
And then there’s the toll-way that runs waaay East of the city, connecting the south end of Tell-Your-Mom-To-Grab-Her-Ankles, to the east side of Horny-Special-Ed-Class-Visits-Petting-Zoo. We’ll call this toll-way, “I-Tag-Teamed-Your-Younger-Sister.” Cause like any 8th Grade, budding young woman, it’s a sure score. And while the traffic is steady and continuous, she’s new enough to be slick and efficient, but smart enough to charge a nominal fee for the ride, as well as use of most entrances and exits.
As always, I hop on I-Tag-Teamed-Your-Younger-Sister. It’s the quickest and it’s right outside my front door. About 2 miles south of Horny-Special-Ed-Class-Visits-Petting-Zoo, (10 miles from the airport), traffic comes to a complete stop. Apparently Horny-Special-Ed-Class-Visits-Petting-Zoo was STILL closed from this bitch. So the 3.5 million people trying to get out of the city via Horny-Special-Ed-Class-Visits-Petting-Zoo are diverted onto I-Tag-Teamed-Your-Younger-Sister. Not by the traffic lights. Not by la policia. But by workers from the Department of Transportation. Who are clearly more qualified than our state patrol.
For over 45 minutes, my car calculates an Average Miles Per Hour of 2 (Two).
Mother. Fucker.
Complicated by parking difficulties (not a lack of spaces, just physically parking my car I’ll tell you later,) a slow, painful limp dragging my luggage to the terminal, and a complete intellectual breakdown in the already understaffed security line, I not only miss my leisurely dinner, but I miss the 2-hour special of Prison Break.
Alas, there is some good news. I am writing what could arguably be the longest, most boring post in short history of Nine-Seven from lovely Pittsburgh. The Sunshine State.
