VA To NJ

Virginia is an odd place.

I was only there for the weekend, and now I've escaped the toothless, backwoods, tobacky chewin' and sister-fucking clutches of the south, and returned back home to the north. A land of smog, insane drivers, cigarettes that cost more than a couple hits of crack, bad bitches with even worse attitudes, and Jews as far as the eye can see...

New Jersey.

Christ, it feels good to be home. It's funny how a weekend away from home can make you appreciate where you live. Not like Virginia is that far away, but I'm glad to be back. Back in the land where my grandfather first snuck off the stern of an incoming Greek olive oil tanker, I can finally breathe again. Quite frankly, my shishkebab blood was too thick to stay too long anywhere below the Dixie line anyhow, and as I pulled my car onto the exit for Interstate 95, I swear to Allah that I heard a million or so redneck voices shout aloud in unison, "GOOD RIDDANCE!". Middle finger high in the air, my other hand gripping my balls, I shouted back in defiance, "GUESS WHAT!? WE WON THE WAR, ASSHOLES!" And with that, I was gone.

If there's one thing I've learned in all my years of being a gypsy (because quite frankly, I can only stay in one city for a maximum of 3-4 years before I am either:

A. Kicked out by the authorities
B. Sneaking out before the authorities can find me or
C. Burning all my bridges, laughing hysterically on the other of the river of life, one hand clutching a gasoline container, the other a cigarette),

I've learned there is nothing worse than trying to drive through the District of Columbia. I would rather have the skin flayed off of my cock with a rusty, dulled grapefruit knife, wielded in the hands of an epileptic sufferer of Parkinson's Disease on the final end of a 6 day crystal meth binge, than have to drive through that godforsaken city again. It never fails, people. Driving UP there is a nice, long boring experience. Start anywhere from the South and I-95 is one smooth sailing ride.

Until you hit our nation's capitol.

Doesn't matter what time it is when you reach it. It could be 2 in the afternoon, 4 in the morning, or 12 o'clock lunch rush hour: Time is meaningless when it comes to the traffic near D.C. There's a perpetual cycle of road work going on, our tax dollars at hard work in an effort to make us all lose our fucking minds whenever one of us tries to drive through that hellish city. It's no wonder Marion Barry used to smoke crack, if the workings of their highway dept. are any indication. So, from leaving Manassas, Virginia, it took a boring 2 hours of flying down the interstate at 90 miles per hour. Eyes fixated on the hypnotic yellow dashes streaking before me. Lungs full of cigarette smoke and blood stream full of Red Bull. I was calm. I was happy. Even, dare I say, content.

Then I reached D.C. Even at 10:45 in the morning, traffic screeched to a tire squealing halt. My blood pressure rose to frightening heights, and a migraine started to stab at me from behind my eyes with a spork. I raged, I roared, I pounded on my steering wheel. From there, after a scant peaceful ride through Maryland, one is forced to suffer the ills of trying to hot dog through the New Jersey Turnpike, a place that I'm sure is the 6th level of Hell made manifest on our physical plane. I must have been away for too long, perhaps I grew too polite over the weekend, too accustomed to the drivers down south because no matter how fast I tried to go in the slow lane, some fuckhead would cut me off, honking his horn and cursing my name, foolishly believing me to be some slack jawed yokel like my license plate led him to think.

Then...home. 10 near misses, and a hit and run later, I realize something:

I love you, New Jersey, but goddamnit all to Hell, your driver's license needs to be revoked.