That's Where I Want To Be!

I have made peace with New Jersey.  Beverly Hills has the worst drivers.  Every time I venture into this deathtrap of packed cars operated by wholeheartedly unaware drivers I fear that I am going to die.  And every single time almost do.  You ever play that game Traffic where you have to shuffle around wooden blocks or cars in order to get yours off the board and to safe haven?  Well, it's like that.  Only at 40 miles an hour.

And I say "wholeheartedly" because you have to try to be such a bad driver.  The near death experience I had today involved two young women, or cunts, going five miles an hour down the middle of an intersection in heavy traffic(because it's never not heavy).  Here's roughly how it looked:



Even as I slammed on my breaks, as my tires squealed, as I blared my horn the two Beverly Hillians just kept on giggling.  That's right.  Kept on.  As in they'd been laughing the whole time instead of fearing for their lives in some sort of confused panic like decent human beings.

I hate Beverly Hills.  You know how it's portrayed in movies and television as being full of really stuck-up self-absorbed jaggoffs?  It's pretty much true.  I was chilling at a Starbucks and actually saw a guy in a sports jacket talking like Ron Whitey from Futurama.  The thing is, it looks just like every other town ever.  Well, except for all the gates.  Every house has a gate.

And that's the big hint right there.  That's better than any metaphor I can come up with.  Gates.  Isn't it funny how the more money people have the more they worry about it?  Poor people aren't worried about money.  We're worried about the things that money gets us.  Like food.  And shelter.  But rich people, they have all the things they need.  So they need to protect their money.  You know, because...it...it's so very green?

Don't get me wrong.  I want to be rich.  I need to be rich.  Here's a formula I've come up with.

     Money=Freedom

Pretty sound, right?  But I can't ever imagine hoarding my money.  I'd rather like to think of myself as that rich buddy who's always buying you beer.  What the hell do I need?  Food.  A place to live.  Some money to travel around.  A Mini Cooper S Convertible.  To live the life I want I need, what, a hundred grand a year?  Two hundred, maybe?  What the hell am I gonna do with the rest of the gobs of money I see my future self possessing?  See, that's what freeloading friends are for.  And maybe I'd buy a casino.