The car in front of me is your basic beater – rust bubbling from every corner, mismatched paint, faded bumper stickers placed strategically to keep the bumper from actually falling off. The cleanest thing is the Virginia license plate; bright and gleaming through the grime it makes one wonder how this bucket made it here from there. Inside a very animated driver is telling his laughing passengers something. I can only imagine what he is saying, “...and the man says that's no woman, that's my wife”. Hilarity ensues.

Meanwhile, Cinder Block sings to me about her shoes and how she got them for nothing, etc. Foxy stares patiently out the back window probably wondering if the people in the car next to us have a treat for her and if not where can she find a treat. And I sit here at this interminably long red light with the smell of just picked up take out rumbling my stomach. How long have I been here? A minute, maybe two? I'm starving so it seems like twenty–five. I wait, tortured by the delicious smell of ribs and the anticipation of how damn good they will taste if I ever get to eat them.

The beater driver is apparently a real cut up. Wait, I've got a good one...
Why did the girl fall off the swing? Ah forget it, green light at last!