True Justice

An example of true justice.

Everyday I drive 394, undoubtedly the worst road yet created by mortal hands and a blight upon the souls of those who must navigate it’s malevolent curves daily. I know what you’re thinking at this moment; you’re thinking:

“Whatever Frank, what do you know about driving. I drive (insert roadway name or number here) everyday, now THAT’s tough.”

I don’t disagree with you; in fact I am utterly certain that everybody has a path they must cross everyday, be it physical or metaphysical, that is trying and demanding beyond measure. But to compare your difficult roads to mine is to compare Bill Clinton to George Bush; yours is simply naughty, mine is downright evil. Let me explain.

All roads have their jam up points and complaining about them is like complaining about the weather, an exercise in futility. However, most roadway communities display common courtesy during these moments of stopitude as a sense of “we’re all in this together” seems to takeover the pack. A perfect example of this is 35W during rush hour, a road that carries tremendous traffic but rarely seems to stop. Don’t get me wrong, I’ve seen some nutso stuff on 35W, but that’s just because it’s being driven by crazed construction workers on their way home after a long day, desperate for a bite and a brew. But for the most part, things move along and people are courteous to each other.

Not 394.

394 is overrun with rich jerks in their new BMW’s just desperate to show how much better they are than you. The chief way they display this expressway elitism is to zoom down the lane dedicated to those exiting on 94 west, pretending that Brooklyn Park or Maple Grove is their final destination, intending all the while to cut into the 1.5 mile long line to exit on 94 east at the very last moment possible. It wouldn’t be so bad if it happened rarely or if it were people that were down on their luck and needed SOME kind of break. Unfortunately, it is almost ALWAYS these bastards that look like they’re from New York (slicked black hair and goofy sunglasses) driving 50K sports sedans. It’s as if they’re saying “Who me? Wait in line? Hahaha, surely you must be joking dear boy!” Every time it happens, I wish I had a homing device that would cause every black fly in the northern Minnesota woods to descend upon their vehicles in a seething mass of unholy vengeance. I figure that would show them.

So where is the justice in all of this?

On Tuesday morning, as I was heading into work, I noticed that the highway patrol had taken up residency in the 394 carpool lane, meaning certain doom for anyone stupid enough to enter this concrete no-less-than-two man’s land. Lo and behold, not 500 feet beyond where I first spotted the patrol cars, was a lone Mercedes Benz stopped dead in its tracks by the crimson lights of the highway patrol. I let out a loud woop and pumped my fist in the air, tasting the sweet juices of justice that has been delivered to the oppressed.