Ambulances are so annoying
An assailment on obnoxious roadway tyrants and selfish injured peopleTo start off, let me say that I am totally down with human life—all the way. And, in the unfortunate event that it is in danger, I have no problems with people trying to salvage it. Honestly, I think it’s quite a nice idea. However, I must admit that I am not especially fond of having my eardrums mercilessly raped every time some negligent dunderhead sticks his hand in the disposal. Also, I have very little appreciation for reckless, flashy disquietude-mobiles terrorizing the roadways and making me late for events that I would very much like to arrive on time for. What I am perhaps too subtly suggesting here is that ambulances are horribly obnoxious vehicles, and either someone needs to turn down the volume on those fuckers or people just need to be more careful.
Twenty-seven days ago, I was sauntering down a popular Austin street, carrying on a very pleasant cellular phone conversation with my friend whose name is Paul. As I was trying to tell him about all these badass parts in a movie he had never seen, our conversation was completely obliterated along with my concentration when a bright, screaming ambulance came barreling down the road, louder than twenty-seven microphoned women giving birth at once. Poor Paul, overhearing the wailing pandemonium, lost all patience for the conversation, and I myself could not regain my composure enough to continue describing the very intricate manipulations of time travel featured in the finale of Bill and Ted’s Bogus Journey. Since this incident, Paul has neglected to return my calls.
Then, just a handful of hours later (oh, let’s say twenty-seven) I was driving to the ice cream parlor in hopes of calming my frustrations with a sweet dessert treat. However, on my way, my life was once again disrupted by the same type of horrendous emergency vehicle probably carting some fatty who likes to have heart attacks or something. The incessant siren cleared a number of my fellow drivers to the side of the road, but I said “Look, Bitch. You’re not the boss of me,” and stayed in the middle lane with my dignity. And I’ll tell you, the chiding glances and shouted expletives cast upon me were no match for the pride I felt in standing up for myself.
I feel I should interrupt and explain to any dismayed readers that I am not a brash or callous individual. But like anyone, I am sensitive to certain irritations such as birds, hunger, and radio stations named Kiss, Mix, or Magic. So, naturally, I do everything I can to avoid or eliminate them. And, whether you agree or not, the lionhearted resistance I exhibited that day and this well-composed editorial are a giant lunge in the right direction.
Conjure up your most recent encounter with one of these pushy noise machines. Do you, like me, recall the unnecessary intensity of the sound? Do you, like me, wake up in a cranky, sleepy fit when a faulty fire alarm goes off? Do you, like me, find yourself unimpressed and agonized by a movie theater’s gloating of how much damage they can do to your cochlea? Do you like me? Gosh, I hope so. In any case, nothing should be that loud, ladies and gentleman. Nothing.
So, in conclusion, shut the fuck up ambulances. We get it. It doesn’t take an abominable cacophony of screaming sirens and a bossy road presence to inform us that some moron went and hurt himself again. Why not take a hint from the cell phone industry and replace the shrill whine with an enjoyable pop song like ‘Beat It’? I, for one, would gladly yield to such an up-tempo, infectious jam, as opposed to the awful noise I have run out of adjectives to describe. And please, people, do your part and stop getting sick and injured. It only supplies a reason for those bastards to push us innocent, healthy folks around. I urge you all to take a stand. If you know an ambulance driver or ever find yourself in a popular ambulance driver hangout, sneak up behind one, blow an airhorn in his ear, and then push him out of his chair. Do this, if not for yourself, then for your old friend Jakers (me). A taste of their own medicine may be precisely what they need.
I have halted this editorial early not because it’s a completely small-minded and asinine argument, but because it is my final completely small-minded and asinine argument in this blessed rag-tag publication. So, forgive me for getting sappy on all ya’lls bored in-between-classes asses, but I’d like to conclude with a brief blurb of gratitude to those people and things worth a sentimental damn.
Muchos Graciases to my friends for all the ideas/confidence/pot they’ve lent me and for reading my articles as if it were a chore. Thank you to my parents for being rich and for periodically asking how “that little magazine thing” is going. Thanks very much to my worn green thesaurus for making me sound smart. Mondo thanks to my fellow Travestites and wee Travestittles for having the determination, admirable insensitivity, and egos to keep this publication existent (Filling twenty pages with funny is likely more daunting than you would imagine—no matter how many one-liners and anecdotes you may woo your courteous friends with). And a final thanks to all those who enjoy a joke and have allowed and encouraged me to publish unwarranted, sardonic wisecracks about those people in life who make me feel insecure. I sincerely hope that all of you allow your spirits to soar on the wings of either love or glory. OK. Bye.