True, the traffic patterns of today are confusing, petty, pro-life, sexualized, put-off, mumbling, totally stupid, and altogether sensuous. Zoned out highway employees tool the interstates for mink wrapped dominatrices and give up all they can for the last kick of shit in their face. Wifebeater flapping in the wind like a rubber hose flogging a helpless child, the nomads of an age long gone (the times of the sexual hitchhikers of crystalized passion) will soon lose all consciousness and slump recklessly across the dotted line. One radical Mad Maxian will reap the benefits of all this needless wreckage. Growing real huge, maybe four or five feet tall, he'll take off the vestiges of a terrible age and don his Zone Tinted Glasses, wrangle the ruined mass of hair upon his dome into a GRADE A UltraHotPink Scrunchie, and set his eyes upon the only thing holding him back: the Stop Sign hanging from a rusted metal pole at the end of the Cul de Sac his mother lives on.
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