Velouria (velouria) wrote,

That's all folks.

Every time I have to honk my horn at some asshole, I'm reduced to tears. It sounds exactly like the Road Runner of Warner Brother's fame. The offender just looks bewildered for a second before laughing uncontrollably. This is what I miss most about my American ex car. Nothing else functioned properly or at all, but the horn never failed to strike fear in the heart of every asshole in the vicinity.

I was honking at this particular asshole on my way to get tuberculosis tested for work. Again. Apparently that's a big threat in the prisons, and I too am at risk from my position on my ass in an office a million miles away. Consumption of pigeons is also a problem there, but no one seems to be worried that I might have picked that up.

The process involves me driving into the heart of downtown and hunting for a parking space for 45 minutes, until I finally end up parking in front of a fire hydrant 8 miles away and running desperately to the building. I then proceed to stand in a line about another 5 miles long for a couple of hours like we're buying Hannah Montana tickets. Eventually, I reach my ultimate destination which consists of some jerk sticking me with a TB infected needle. Thank you, jerk. I then run back out to the car (desperately) and tearfully offer to have sex with the guy towing my car until he finally agrees to stop.

Rinse and repeat in two days to get my gaping wound inspected for signs of TB, and then annually for as longs as I continue to work for the department. That might not be much longer if they kill me with TB.
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