Option one: Pull over and be that guy throwing up vodka on the shoulder of the thruway at 8 in the morning on a Thursday.
Option two: Sit in the car and pray that an oncoming tractor-trailer would end my misery instead.
I knew that I had had far too much fun the night before for the simple reason that about 10 minutes into my morning commute I found myself yelling, “EVERYBODY JUST SHUT THE FUCK UP!” This in itself wasn’t much proof—after all, being the understanding, sensitive person that I am, my friends have grown accustomed to my irrational profanity-laced outbursts, which are occationally punctuated with violence. What made the shouting remarkable was that eventually I realized that there was no one else in the car and I was shouting at my radio which, despite my eloquence, refused to "shut the fuck up."
There are few clearer signs that you’re in for a bad day than when you come to consciousness enraged that invisible enemies are disobeying your orders. Honestly, it’s a miracle that I didn’t turn my car around right there.
Instead, I switched off the radio; an action that, shockingly, failed to improve my equilibrium or my chances at avoiding violent illness. After a few uncomfortable minutes of silence I began humming to myself, in that way six year-olds do: beginning really quietly, almost under their breath, and building until they're shouting it at retard volumes.
So there I was, alone in my car, the radio off, belting out the theme to Knight Rider at the top of my lungs:
DUH DUNA DAAAA, DUH DUNA DAAAAA, DUD DUNA DA DA DAAAAAAAAAAAAAA!!!
Now, when you’re screaming out a theme with no words, you tend to lose interest fairly quickly. So I began singing about everything I saw on the road, still to the Knight Rider:
YOU CUT ME OFF!!! YOU STUPID FUCK! HEY THERE’S A HUGE POT HOLE!
It was a good game that almost distracted me from the fact that I was driving to work drunk on a Thursday morning. All was well until I somehow found myself stuck behind a huge, white van. It was the kind that seems to be owned by every single child abductor since 1982. It’s like car dealers refuse to sell these things to anyone who doesn’t spend a minimum of 4 hours a day in chat rooms, telling underage boys that they needed help moving the boxes of candy in their cellars.
The abduction van in and of itself wouldn’t have been enough to break into consciousness—but what did penetrate my observation was the fact that Mr. Abductor had a tire cover with a huge picture of Jesus. Now, I don’t know a lot about religious symbolism. But I do have to wonder at one’s taste when they decide that the best place for Christ is on the back of their rusted out van on the spare tire. What, did they not have any Jesus jock straps? Were there no more rolls of “Our Savior Toilet Paper”?
Whatever the case, I was still locked into my game of singing everything that I saw. Which is why I found myself at 8:30 on Thursday morning, drunk, miserable, and yelling out to the tune of the Knight Rider theme:
JESUS VAN!!! JESUS VAN!!! COMING TO ABDUCT YOUR KIDS!!! THEN THEY’LL LOCK THEM IN THE BASEMENT AND TEACH THEM TO HATE HOMOSEXUALS!!!
I’m sick, I know. But the good news is that I’ve hit an awesome idea for a TV show: it’s a spin-off of Knight Rider, except instead of the car being a crime-fighting Trans-Am it’s a huge, religiously-fanatical Chevy van. It’ll star Mr. T in the David Hasselhoff roll and the two will set off on missions like abducting homosexuals under the guise of trying to “deprogram them,” handing out pamphlets at the airport, and protesting the removal of religious articles from state buildings across America.
“Oh no, T! The parents of that dead, homosexual soldier are trying to bury their child in peace! Quick! Get the picket signs out of the back and let’s spit on them!”
“Quit your jibber-jabber, Jesus Van! I see the fools!”
I wonder what it’s like being normal. I’ll bet you don’t have nearly as many day-dreams involving fanatical, homophobic 80’s spin-off shows. Oh well. Come back next week when I pitch my version of the anti-Semitic A.L.F.
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