Cool Hand Luke Meets Dull Beige Prick

Remember Cool Hand Luke? The chain-gang's answer to Johnny Depp and Paul Newman's finest moment? Well were it not for him, sweat boxes and boiled eggs would have long ago been relegated to the trash heap of history.

Luckily for us (and mankind as a whole), the Christian Coalition (along with Marky Mark and the underpants from hell) suck boiled-eggs for a living. So that takes care of that. But so far as sweat boxes are concerned, unless you happen to live in Guatemala City or Jersey City, they're an endangered specie.

Or are they?

Everyday, countless salivating slobs with bad breath and even worse dress sense, will clamour aboard a latino sweat box and bedevil their commute into Manhattan from Joisey City. Naturally, Mr. Newman's no-where to be seen, and neither for that matter, is George Kennedy, Oscars, absurd choreography, scantily dressed has-beens beneath a bee-hive or an obsequious forget-me-not!

Thus, as the lonely plethora of irate stockbrokers (immersed in either misery or Tom Clancy or both) descend upon the Lincoln Tunnel, hate, hate, and nothing but the hate, will devour their entire morning. For car - containing smug fuck in beige suit and receding personality - after car, after car, after car, after car, after car, will congest the bejesus out of the entire journey... Not only that, but said fuck will pollute the atmosphere even more than need be, as well as turn Manhattan into a maze of migraine. And why? So's they can listen to their crap Def Leppard CDs in the comfort of their own faultless, brown-nosed, hydrochloric, air-conditioned, pettifogging, world of self-centred Utopia?

Whatever happened to car-pooling? Or commuting on a bus or train (admittedly, a tad irksome, but a lot more considerate)?

Perhaps everyone driving into Manhattan at eight in the morning's heading for the opera, not realising that Luciano Pavarotti's still tucked up in bed with his wife and a belly full linguini. Perhaps they're all (transient) sales-reps on the make, on the run, on the George Washington Bridge.

Hi-ho/Hi-ho/It's off to congest we go...

For the sake of argument, lets just suppose that 50% of all cars driving into Manhattan are driven by people who have no other choice - an unlikely scenario, but there you go. That still leaves thousands of fucks unaccounted for; cause they're not only selfish, but myopic and dense and stoooooopid.

Morons who drive to work on their own should be severely reprimanded.

They should either be force fed the Beach Boys for a month. Or, at the very least, forced to endure the last Rainbow album (in its entirety at tad-pole level) for the duration of what it takes them to realise THERE ARE other commuters in the world. Or, better still, they could be gaffa-taped to the ceiling of an aforementioned Joisey City sweat box and be subjected to the everyday horrors of commuting into Manhattan via the stop/start/insinuating/stench/briefcase to the groin/stop/start/flick of a mid-town zipper/smog palate/Haitian Divorce/shaft yer Steely Dan up yer rectum of g(l)orified self-indulgence/stop/start/foot-sore/eye-sore/Colombian pop-pom/stop/start/pitter-patter/love struck/no change/hold-up/Stop/Start/squeeze meets pulling filthy-looks from a shell/vomit seeking/kamikaze right turn/stop/start/belligerent cop with something to prove cause he didn't get his gun tampered with last night/roll of the dice/muthafucka doo-wop entirely cleansed and mortified and suicidal and everything that rises must converge...

Fuckers.