Driving in LA

A Complete A**hole's Guide to Commuting in Los Angeles

BY PAUL T. BRADLEY

Hey there, asshole! Just moved to the Angel City, huh? The Big Orange. Tinselvillage. Know how I can tell? We assholes can spot each other a mile away — and that chrome spoiler from last year is a dead giveaway. Look, driving here isn’t like slaloming corn stalks and shuttered coal mines back in Iowa — it’s a little more complicated than that. Since you’re new here, I’ll give you a few pointers and you’ll be ready to turn heads on Hollywood Street with the best of us in no time at all. 

For starters, it appears as though you’ve got a pretty sweet ride. You affixed that "shocker" decal yourself? Looks like it. Maybe you should add some more spoilers to the front, on the sides and on the rear-view mirror. You can never have too many — being aerodynamic is a key factor in driving like a complete piece of shit. I've heard, if you have enough of them, the numerous Fast and Furious characters will all invite you to their secret street-racing parties.

OK, let’s pull out of the driveway and open this bad boy up. Crank that stereo system, friend, because everyone in a 10 block radius wants to hear what you're listening to. That's it, get those sounds you like out of every window. I think the bass is a little too low though, folks need to legitimately feel their bowels rumble when you pass, otherwise they'll forget you exist. 

Oh crud: traffic. Yeah, that’s a thing here in South California. Not to worry, you’re an asshole, and you need not upset yourself with something as piddling as traffic. Waiting is for people who aren’t as awesome as you. The best move is to ride for as long as possible in the right-turning lane like you’re going to make a right, but then at the last second cut back left and ahead of all the other numskulls that waited in that traffic. Yeah, that’s it. Wave to the numskulls! Their middle fingers are just Los Angelesan for “You’re the best, dawg!”

I noticed you used your turn signal back there; kind of a rookie mistake. I know it’s tempting to follow both common human courtesy and the letter of the law, but you’ve got to understand that the blinker is for the weaklings of this world, the creampuffs of life, if you will. Does the main character of Bullet use his blinker when he races his car real fast down the road? How ‘bout Guy Fieri? No. They do not. Remember: every blink drains virility from your body. Those little flashes are actually Morse code for, “I still wet my bed through college, I keep my special blankie in the glove box and I own the entire Land Before Time series on Blu-ray …” over and over. It’s a fact; you can look it up. Don’t use your blinker, rook.

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Go on, get a little closer.

Ah, now we’re on the open highway. Fiddlesticks: more goshdarn traffic. A right proper asshole has three options in unavoidable traffic, 1.) Weave in and out of multiple lanes, gaining a crucial inch or two with every weave; 2.) cruise the breakdown lane like a real hero; or 3.) get out that smart telephone and text! Me personally? I need to know what my boys and girls are up to at all times, as well as the scores of the sports games, so I’m going to text. Let the people behind us wait — someone might respond to the mass "DTF?" I sent to everyone on the OKTinder. 

It’s important to remember when driving down the highways and main boulevards of this city that everything is a race and all of the people ahead of you are winning that race. You may have left behind all of those kids who made fun of you in backwoods Chicago, but think of everyone on the road as those exact same bullies. You can’t let them win. Most importantly: you can’t, under any circumstances, let them merge safely into your lane. They pantsed you at every opportunity. They wrote “Bed Wetter” on your locker. They tried to ruin you. DO NOT let them merge. 

OK! Time for your parking lesson. You’re going to have take up two whole spots in the garage — you may even want to try for three if you can. Maybe even an HP spot? Other people can’t and shouldn’t come within inches of your tight AF be-spoilered chariot. This isn’t even up for debate. If you must go the parallel parking route somewhere, leave enough room so that no one else will be able to park around you. Almost a car length of space at both bumpers should suffice. Nice, now some dolt will look at all of the space you took up and get real angry, he may even try to fit into the space. Remember: He gave you toilet swirlies. He chanted "Baby Blankie Boy" at senior prom. His anger fuels you even if you're not around to witness it.

Yes! Someone's been doing his homework.

I almost forgot the most important lesson of all: it is absolutely essential for you, as an a**hole, to lose your stuff over every single possible slight on the road — perceived or otherwise. This let’s people know you mean business and that you definitely don't need a plastic cover on your mattress anymore. In upstate Minneapolis you could probably scream something like “Hey, hoser, go screw!” and that probably worked. Here, you’re going to have to get creative — insult mothers, fathers, children. Go wild. Science has proven that racial epithets work best at getting across dominance. Unsure of your enemy’s ethnicity? Make one up! A lot of things can sound racist if you yell them right. Women? Psht. You can spit out some sexist hoo ha without even trying, can't you? You totally can.

I think that should suffice for now. You’ve learned well. Welcome to the club. Now, all of the vaginas, penises and other sex parts you desire will be yours and all of the haters will pay dearly for their transgressions.