Somehow I managed to spend only about half an hour at the Department of Motor Vehicles this morning. I had apparently beaten the rush by seconds, as after I’d been given my little deli counter ticket and told to wait, a massive line had materialized behind me; I blithely wandered over to the nearly-empty waiting room as I watched more and more hapless fucks queue up at the reception desk and thought “there but for the grace of God go I.”
While my stay at the DMV was surprisingly painless and swift, I was nearly killed three separate times driving both to and from there thanks to the quintessential douchebag known as the New York Driver. If there’s one thing I enjoy about living in Pennsylvania, it would definitely be the lack of massive bleeding assholes on the road everywhere you go. The only people who drive worse than New Yorkers would be people from New Jersey, and driving from NY to home is always harrowing during that long stretch on Interstate 78, where it’s like the qualifiers for the Asshole Olympics all day every day, rain or shine.
Of course, I-78 is like a Sunday drive compared to getting off of Long Island. This place is like a death trap, and since it’s either take the Verrazano Bridge and be subjected to a $13 toll (plus having to go through Staten Island, which is punishment enough) or take the Queens-Midtown Tunnel, cut across Manhattan, and then flee the borough via the Lincoln Tunnel, all for the “bargain” price of $6.50. The thought of going through not one but two underwater tunnels invariably makes my balls clench, and the experience of driving through Midtown usually tempts me to pray for a swift and merciful death, but I’ll be damned if I’m paying thirteen bucks for the privilege of driving through a place that makes the cast of The Jersey Shore look like fucking Shakespearean stage actors. Let’s face it, the only thing good to ever come out of Staten Island is the Wu-Tang Clan, and they left.
I should probably just get one of those EZPass things since having one earns you discounted bridge and tunnel tolls, but my Inner Conspiracy Theorist always quails at the thought of giving the government yet one more way to track your movements and activities. At the same time, I’m not going to be able to afford too many tinfoil hats if I keep this up. Thank the Flying Spaghetti Monster my car gets really good gas mileage; it’s bad enough that there’s a 30-cent difference in the price of gas between New York and Pennsylvania.
I will say that waking up and reading The New York Times this morning was nice. Beats the Hell out of reading the op-ed page of the local fish wrapper, which invariably consists of how Pottstown and Reading are being ruined by all the Puerto Ricans that move into the area – meanwhile most Puerto Rican families have been American citizens longer than these Caucasian jackwagons.
I swear, it’s like these people get upset if they hear about a new bodega going in on the corner. Don’t these people realize that you can’t get your drugs from the local Wawa?