Red light, green light

Will someone please tell me what's going on?

Today J had the rabid desire to consume an enormous cheeseburger (20 ounces, not including cheese and assorted toppings) and a double malt pistachio shake, so I zipped off in my little grey Beetle for a late afternoon date.

By the time I arrived, he was shaking by the doorway, getting whiffs of the beefy aroma and subtly staring down the packs of teenagers who were surely going to take our table, relegating him to leftover pork roast at home.

I was quivering for another reason: the normally 8-12 minute ride (burger nirvana is just a block from the dentist I enjoy so much) lasted a frustrating 38 minutes. Why? Because every self-centered nitwit in Plainview insisted on running the lights and turning left when the green light on my side indicated it was my turn. Not one car per intersection, or even two, but EIGHT! Then NINE, as I aimed my Beetle right at them and growled. And yes, most of them were yapping on cell phones, which is ILLEGAL in this state.

I was so flustered by the time I arrived, I couldn't even think of eating moo-cow. I had a portabella mushroom sandwich, on rye. And a half milkshake. Banana. Yum.

J and his burger had a lovely time, and his photo is now on the wall for finishing the big beast. My man is famous.