On douchebags and winter madness

I feel for you. I really do.

You’ve had a difficult 15 minutes so far.

You’re stuck in a parking spot that wasn’t fully shoveled out, all movement embargoed by a slushy, icy prison that looms 4 inches above the ground.

The cacophony of futility, my head is filled with the sound of your whirring, sliding, screeching tires.


25 minutes later: How long can you keep this up? I’m sure you’re sitting behind the wheel, wishing, imploring, cursing, and laboring. Rocking back and forth, your engine stutters and seizes. Yet you just don’t give up. I’m almost impressed. Almost.


Get out of your car. Put floor mats under your tires for leverage. Shovel a simple tire path. Shovel the snow into the street. I hate it when people do that, but I don’t care anymore. You see, it’s 1:07 in the fucking morning and your no-wheel drive symphony is no lullaby. I’m well-invested in you going on your merry way, but am also on the verge of going all chicken-killer on your ass.

10 minutes later: You’re like a highway accident, and I’m compelled to rubberneck you from my window. I could almost forgive you for the last half hour of madness, if I thought you did all this for an urgent or higher purpose –  rushing to an overnight job, transporting vital organs, something.

But you. Your madness is absolute. For all that effort, you’ve gone as far as across the street. You did all that just to park your car in yet another parking spot that you don’t bother shoveling out, in which you have to rock back and forth just to settle into.

You, my friend, are something special.

Car in Snow

This isn’t the douchebag. This was my car on 122nd St. in Harlem, back in 2010. Maybe the tension was dulled by time, but that was less upsetting than having to listen to the douchebag for half hour.