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Dear blizzard drivers of the Mid-Atlantic,
It's a blizzard, stupid. Get off the road right now, or risk being hit by a snowball and being given an unflattering portrayal in my hugely popular blog. Get off the road, go back to your house, and read a book, okay?
I'm an enthusiastic pedestrian, by association if not purest necessity, and I'm sick to death of the whole stinking lot of you morons blowing through the pedestrian crossings, driving diagonally across parking lots and then looking surprised when I don't dive out of the way, and otherwise being complete and total jackasses. In the snow, you're a hazard, a fleet of suburbanized wastes-of-skin instinctively lurching around the icy roads out of some desperate desire to get to the grocery store to buy some sugar-filled crap in a bag to shove in your li'l darling's pie hole to shut them up or milk or whatever other thing you think is so freaking important that you drive sideways to get it. Get off the road right now.
Congratulations on buying a rear-wheel drive SUV, too, you dimwitted media zombie. How's that working out for you in the snow? Umm…well I know how it's working out, seeing as you've nearly hit me about fifty times now, skidding past where I've had to hurl myself into a snowbank as your freaking pseudo-manly luxoboat came lumbering by, almost perpendicular to the flow of traffic, with you looking wild-eyed and yelling into your cellphone. Maybe you've got the car crammed full of your ill-bred brood, all wrapped up tighty-tight to find a snowy hill to sled down, and they're all screaming, too. At least you weren't an idiot, believing the general buzz out of a billion gobs about how "you can't beat physics" and how much safer it is to be sitting four feet high in a tippy leather-lined phone booth. How often are you really going to need four wheel drive, anyway?
Get off the road right now.
Of course, you didn't buy that SUV because you're a wussified social climber, crawling with fear at the thought that you'll look whipped in a minivan or worse, in a—heaven forfend—station wagon. No one thinks that about you, no one at all. I'm proud of you for not getting on the lesbian bandwagon and picking out a sensible all wheel drive wagon. You are the one true original in the parking lot at the business park, even if your little blue/silver/black/champagne trucklet doesn't really stand out so much. This is America, gosh darn it, and we can drive what we want!
Get off the road right now.
That said, my lovelies, you've lost this round. The roads belong to us—to all the walkers, the cyclists, and those of us who take the alternate routes. Take a load off, settle in, make yourself a meal out of whatever you've got around the house (get creative!), have a nice cup of tea, and read a book. It's beautiful at home, on days like this, to just fling open the blinds and let the brilliant light come in, and to sit back and feel like, just for a moment, you don't have to play that game you play because you've been forced into it, day after day, year after year, until you can finally settle back into the slackness of retirement and die. Seize the day! Fix something, or read something, or write a story. It's fun! I'm doing it right now, in fact.
Get OFF the road RIGHT NOW.
Heck, put some bread bags over your Nikes with rubber bands, dress up all nice and warm, and go for a walk. It's glorious outside, at least in Laurel, Maryland. The local news anchors are coining words like "snowpacalypse" and "snowmaggeddon" and more, but they're just mad because they're trapped in their newsrooms, forced, at long last, to bond with the lighting guy, and it's probably a scary place for them. You, on the other hand, can be free. You don't have to go to work, and you will have all the time you need to get the Ferguson report revised while everyone else is also getting caught up. You can be alive and engaged, and filled with the joy and wonder that comes with a change in the weather that makes the whole world a new and amazing place overnight. It's simple. Just—
GET OFF THE ROAD RIGHT NOW.
Seriously. Put down the snow shovel, put the keys back in the little bowl by the door, and go back inside. You never know when some crazy left-wing crank could be down in his basement, hammering nails into homemade spike strips and caltrops, do you? There could be anti-car terrorists out there right now, actual terrorists on the streets of Laurel, Maryland, just like the Republicrats will tell you, prowling like rats with their evil liberislamogay agendas, out to hurt your family. Haven't you seen the news? They're everywhere! Don't take chances, my beloved countrymen—
GET OFF THE ROAD RIGHT NOW.
Just to make sure, though, I'll sacrifice myself, and go out on patrol. It's a dangerous job, this never-ending vigilance, but it sure is pretty outside. Leave the car or trucklet at home, will you? I'll be sure to let you know when it's safe to come out.
Your pal, Joe.
It's a blizzard, stupid. Get off the road right now, or risk being hit by a snowball and being given an unflattering portrayal in my hugely popular blog. Get off the road, go back to your house, and read a book, okay?
I'm an enthusiastic pedestrian, by association if not purest necessity, and I'm sick to death of the whole stinking lot of you morons blowing through the pedestrian crossings, driving diagonally across parking lots and then looking surprised when I don't dive out of the way, and otherwise being complete and total jackasses. In the snow, you're a hazard, a fleet of suburbanized wastes-of-skin instinctively lurching around the icy roads out of some desperate desire to get to the grocery store to buy some sugar-filled crap in a bag to shove in your li'l darling's pie hole to shut them up or milk or whatever other thing you think is so freaking important that you drive sideways to get it. Get off the road right now.
Congratulations on buying a rear-wheel drive SUV, too, you dimwitted media zombie. How's that working out for you in the snow? Umm…well I know how it's working out, seeing as you've nearly hit me about fifty times now, skidding past where I've had to hurl myself into a snowbank as your freaking pseudo-manly luxoboat came lumbering by, almost perpendicular to the flow of traffic, with you looking wild-eyed and yelling into your cellphone. Maybe you've got the car crammed full of your ill-bred brood, all wrapped up tighty-tight to find a snowy hill to sled down, and they're all screaming, too. At least you weren't an idiot, believing the general buzz out of a billion gobs about how "you can't beat physics" and how much safer it is to be sitting four feet high in a tippy leather-lined phone booth. How often are you really going to need four wheel drive, anyway?
Get off the road right now.
Of course, you didn't buy that SUV because you're a wussified social climber, crawling with fear at the thought that you'll look whipped in a minivan or worse, in a—heaven forfend—station wagon. No one thinks that about you, no one at all. I'm proud of you for not getting on the lesbian bandwagon and picking out a sensible all wheel drive wagon. You are the one true original in the parking lot at the business park, even if your little blue/silver/black/champagne trucklet doesn't really stand out so much. This is America, gosh darn it, and we can drive what we want!
Get off the road right now.
That said, my lovelies, you've lost this round. The roads belong to us—to all the walkers, the cyclists, and those of us who take the alternate routes. Take a load off, settle in, make yourself a meal out of whatever you've got around the house (get creative!), have a nice cup of tea, and read a book. It's beautiful at home, on days like this, to just fling open the blinds and let the brilliant light come in, and to sit back and feel like, just for a moment, you don't have to play that game you play because you've been forced into it, day after day, year after year, until you can finally settle back into the slackness of retirement and die. Seize the day! Fix something, or read something, or write a story. It's fun! I'm doing it right now, in fact.
Get OFF the road RIGHT NOW.
Heck, put some bread bags over your Nikes with rubber bands, dress up all nice and warm, and go for a walk. It's glorious outside, at least in Laurel, Maryland. The local news anchors are coining words like "snowpacalypse" and "snowmaggeddon" and more, but they're just mad because they're trapped in their newsrooms, forced, at long last, to bond with the lighting guy, and it's probably a scary place for them. You, on the other hand, can be free. You don't have to go to work, and you will have all the time you need to get the Ferguson report revised while everyone else is also getting caught up. You can be alive and engaged, and filled with the joy and wonder that comes with a change in the weather that makes the whole world a new and amazing place overnight. It's simple. Just—
GET OFF THE ROAD RIGHT NOW.
Seriously. Put down the snow shovel, put the keys back in the little bowl by the door, and go back inside. You never know when some crazy left-wing crank could be down in his basement, hammering nails into homemade spike strips and caltrops, do you? There could be anti-car terrorists out there right now, actual terrorists on the streets of Laurel, Maryland, just like the Republicrats will tell you, prowling like rats with their evil liberislamogay agendas, out to hurt your family. Haven't you seen the news? They're everywhere! Don't take chances, my beloved countrymen—
GET OFF THE ROAD RIGHT NOW.
Just to make sure, though, I'll sacrifice myself, and go out on patrol. It's a dangerous job, this never-ending vigilance, but it sure is pretty outside. Leave the car or trucklet at home, will you? I'll be sure to let you know when it's safe to come out.
Your pal, Joe.
