Issue #: 1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 10 11 12 13

So in an attempt to alleviate the boredom that had been plaguing me during the summer doldrums, I decided to hop in a car and go down Miami.

I hate Miami. And I'm not going to deny that. I mean come on... why the hell would anyone besides a tourist/someone who legitimately lives there want to venture there? Now I'm not talking about like Kendall, or Hialeah, or any of those other pseudo-Miami cities... I'm talking Miami-Miami. I hate going there.

***Top 3 Reasons Why Steven Hates Miami***

1) In Miami, motorists have the collective driving skills of dead fish. There are four kinds of Miami drivers: Island drivers, Old People, Native drivers, and Tourists. Island drivers drive at about 750 miles per hour and weave in and out of lanes; and that's them in a drive thru. The only laws they follow are the laws of physics; and if they could break those laws, they would. Old people are usually transplanted New Yorkers who drive cars that could qualify as converted aircraft carriers. They drive 20 miles per hour with the left blinker on, which has been on since they left the dealership in Queens, NY. Native Drivers, meaning people who have lived in Florida for some time, all drive the same way. I am one of them. We all clench the steering wheel really tightly, curse a lot, and pray like crazy: "Oh God, Oh Go... WHAT THE HELL IS THIS ASSHOLE DOING!?!?!" I was once passed by a dirt mover that you would find at a construction sites. Tourists drive their rental cars and drive with the same rules that apply in their country. That could mean you may see them driving on the left side of the road, taking no rights on red, using the sidewalk as a valid lane, and for them car washes are certainly game for passing zones.

2) If you're in Miami, and you are: White, Straight, and NOT crazy... you are not really welcome there. Now this isn't reason to hate Miami. I like the diversity. I mean if I wanted nothing but white, straight people who are afraid of change... I'd be a Republican. But anyway, I feel kind of unwelcome when I go down there and interrupt a cashier speaking Spanish or Creole to their co-worker (how rude of me) to ring up whatever it is I'm buying. And then get major attitude for doing it. I hate to sound like an old person... but this is America. I wouldn't go to Haiti and speak English all the time. I'd probably be shot. I recall hearing a news story about a man from Ohio once tapped a waitress at a busy restaurant in South Beach to get her attention (how rude!). In Ohio, I’m sure the waitress would have turned around and either helped the man or at least would’ve told him to wait. However in Miami, he was decked in the face. Not by another customer, but by the waitress herself! Plus, she was never fired. Perhaps she was promoted.

3) The third thing is traffic. I swear to God there must be like this permanent barrier of traffic around the city. Whether it be on the Palmetto, I-95, or the Turnpike, it's backed up! Always. Or at least when I go. Case in point: On this day, traffic was disgusting. There was even traffic in the shoulder of the highway where all the motorcycles cheat the system and pass everyone. However, my brother went with his camp down to Miami Seaquarium on the same day, using the same highway and said he got there and back with ease. Interesting. Well, anyway that's why if you ever have a flight into MIA, or are going to a game at the American Airlines Arena, leave now, even if you haven't booked your flight or gotten the tickets yet. Just go. You'll understand later.

So why, do you ask, was I going there? Well, the answer is quite simple: Boredom. I had been so unbelievably bored that I was up for doing something crazy. Suicidally crazy. Also, there is a Pita Pit in Miami Beach. Thus, I hopped in Cliffy, and left for Hell. And after turning around to get the directions, and getting gas, and stopping at an ATM, 45 minutes after I disembarked, I left Sunrise City Limits. I got down there following my trusty mapquest map. Here is a direct quote from it: "Take slight right on to FLORIDA TURNPIKE from I-95"... (2 miles later) "Turn right on to I-95 from FLORIDA TURNPIKE.” Also included was "Take slight right on to MacArthur Causeway." and "Take Left on to A1A.” Those sounded normal, but had I taken the left onto A1A at that time, I would've driven into the Miami River. In fact, I was on A1A. Good old Mapquest.

Anyway, I finally got there, drove up Washington Avenue, which is totally torn apart with construction, and I parallel parked. Don't ask me how I didn't kill any pedestrians or construction workers, or how I didn't total Cliffy (my light blue Saturn), but I didn't. Anyway, I headed over to Pita Pit and ate. That was probably the only good thing that happened. It tasted amazing. All I needed was a beer, and one of my neighbors having rough sex with his faking girlfriend next door, and I would've been in G'ville. Anyway, I got back to the car because the meter was almost up ($1.15 for 35 mins), and I headed back out. I made it out of the deep traffic fog cloud, and seemed to be executing a perfect escape. But of course fate caught up with me (as usual) and kicked me square in the nuts.

I don't know where or how, but I started hearing a clicking noise. Now normally I fix all my car problems very easily. I usually just turn the volume up on the CD player. However, this one sounded bad. So I had to pull off at the next exit. And of course that exit happened to be Reverend Doctor Alan Jackson Junior Boulevard, or for short: Rev. Dr. A. Jackson Jr. Blvd. Obviously, I was in trouble. I was having car problems in the ghetto. Worse still...I was wearing my "If you ain't ghetto you ain't shizzle” shirt. I was more of a target than I normally Anyway, I finally got to a BP station that didn't have metal bars on the windows, and checked it out. I had run over a nail. I headed in to get a soda for some reason (no, I don't know why) and saw, on sale mind you, huge knives with serrated blades, and nunchucks. That got me thinking... what kind of gas station sells weapons? Needless to say I was faced with a decision: 1.) drive home and potentially die via fiery crash, or 2.) stay there and replace the tire and risk being killed in a minor gang war skirmish. Well, I like a challenge and I am afraid to die in the ghetto. So I went home driving like an old person the whole way home, and somehow I survived.

So going to Miami only cost 34 bucks. Eight for the chicken caesar combo, and 26 for patching my tire at Pep Boys. However I learned something that day. I learned that no matter what I do there, Miami always finds a way kick me directly in the nuts. Just on this particular day, Miami was wearing steel toed boots with a nail on the tip.