Another morning, another pothole. When are they going to fix every other broken street around my house. It’s quarter to nine in the morning and already the day is one half hour behind schedule thanks to what little procrastinations have a risen after watching Mad Max: Fury Road.
Sing with me folks, post apocalyptic industrialization! Or as I have come to know it, the section of 95 heading North between the Ben Franklin Bridge and Academy Road every single morning. Driving out of the city for work during the Monday thru Friday grind. Crazy, right? There’s only one logical way out of the city. Any back road or Jersey detour is more impractical and presents way more of a chance to end out on a swamped road, especially after last night’s heavy rainfall.
A little section of 95, running both North and South, my Fury Road. Here’s a tip for anybody that winds up in a similar situation, watch out for the goons passing on the right. Especially if you’re behind an 18-wheeler. Most especially if the goon is driving one. Make a mistake and the movie ends sooner than you think. Don’t most of us prefer the more contemporary way of dying. Like begging. Slowly waiting for the water to fall with all the other vagabonds.
The construction taking place seems like it will never end. Plus its been going on forever. That damn left turn near the office is on a personal Mt. Rushmore featuring dangerous portions of my often mundane day-to-day. After parking, always make sure nothing is left in plain sight. Broken people tend to find most of their hopeless prayers answered preying on middle class nine-to-fivers running a half hour behind schedule. Running away from where they have to eventually return. Those city dwellers. And to think of all the time I’d save in my week if I had wagered on a house in Croydon.
Trust me, the ride home is not any easier. That’s why George Miller named it Fury Road. Exhilaration is a two way street. My cousin Larry said on the ride home: “if you told me that movie was the most expensive movie ever made, I’d probably believe it.” Let’s just say it’s quite the romper. I’m glad to hear Hollywood agrees and is letting George Miller make more babies. Now if only they could fix all these broken roads near my home. The post apocalyptic industrialization on my end of life’s bargain may finally start veering its ugly head and making way for my own utopian Valhalla.