The Hollywood Bowl awaits us on Thursday. Every Thursday, for years now, during the season of the Bowl, we manage to get ourselves to see the Thursday night concert. In early days we did so by climbing two mountain ranges, crossing a major highway, without assistance of a light or stop sign and traversing a long underground tunnel filled with music, open hats and incense laden air. That's before the long walk up to the seats.
Then the underground came to town and we went by subway and bus. Very Metro but it required a race back to the bus after the performance. If you missed the first bus to the Kodak Center, you had to wait until the last person exits the Bowl before the bus leaves. There are only two buses that go back to the Kodak Center, or you walk back which is all down hill to get the underground.
Now we have handicap parking. Ah, the handicap, those madcap-fun-loving geezers. Cranky--they make a prostituting transsexual look saintly when they open their mouths. "Don't park so close to my car. I'm handicapped."
"Oh, yeah? Well what do you think I use this cane for? Other than to shove up your ass. And you're not handicapped.You're just damn ugly. If you had any decency, you would put a cloth bag over your head the next time you go public."
I love them and the wicked race to the go-carts. Carts that haul fat-ass crutch people around the Bowl. The cripple geezers ply the drivers with drugs from their Medi-Care bag to beat the other go-cart. Or threaten the driver with raised walkers over their heads that if they loose they will plummet them harder than Sarah Palin's four inch stilettos can crush Levi Johnston's balls.
It is so bad that they now barricade the entrance to the handicap parking area. You drive up, show them your placard AND that you bought handicap parking before they remove the barrier and let you in. When you see the attendants wearing flak jackets and jock straps for ice hockey goalies, you know that these geezers are to be feared.
No comments:
Post a Comment