Soccer Dad and the People in your Neighborhood: True Tales of an SLC Cabbie
Issue 205 / January 2006 More from this Issue
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By, The Incredulous Gadianton
Episode #11: Yuppie Souffl
vicdic66@hotmail.com
The roads were black-like-my-soul smooth with invisible ice layers. I was rocking my ancient cassette copy of The Dead Milkmen masterpiece Big Lizard in my Backyard in an effort to combat the cold, to battle the crusty winter fuck-it-alls. 2005 had basically come and gone without me witnessing one single ode, aside or tribute to commemorate the fact that The Dead Milkmen's debut album had turned 20 years old. Shame. Personally, I feel that it's one of the ten best albums ever made; prophetic and ridiculously ahead of its time. "Violence rules, guns are cool and we've got guns in our school." Damn straight.
Remarkably, the taxi stand in front of Port O' Call was devoid of cabs, so I pulled in and cut the engine. Because it was close to last call, it only took about three minutes of sitting there before somebody required my services (a finely-garbed douchebag, of course).
"Hey, there are five of us. How much to The Hilton?"
In response, I asked, "Which one?"
Douchebag looked at me with disgust and said, "The one by the airport, smart guy. You got a problem with that?"
Huh? I was puzzled by Douchebag's combative tone and I almost told him to eat a big bowl of dick. However, a trip to The Airport Hilton generally nets 20 bucks, so I let it slide. I said, "No problem, my man. I just wanted to be sure which one."
The rest of Douchebag's troupe soon stumbled out of Port O' Ass a clichd, khaki-clad collection of out-of-state yuppies. Douchebag sat shotgun. His first order of business? Ejecting my tape. "What the fuck was that shit?" he asked, not really wanting an answer. He then began flipping through the FM dial. I bit my lip. It was only going to be five or ten minutes until these assholes were out of my life forever and I'd be 20 dollars richer because of it. The four tightly-packed businessmen in the back seat squawked on loudly with arrogant conversation and reprehensible opinions ("Rove is a fucking genius") as Douchebag landed on a classic rock station. Bad Company. Oh, Christ. We accelerated onto the freeway. I took deep breaths.
"Pretty shitty town you got here, my friend," stated Douchebag, interrupting his horrendous sing-along with Feel Like Making Love.
"Yeah, OK. Where are y'all from?" I asked.
Episode #11: Yuppie Souffl
vicdic66@hotmail.com
The roads were black-like-my-soul smooth with invisible ice layers. I was rocking my ancient cassette copy of The Dead Milkmen masterpiece Big Lizard in my Backyard in an effort to combat the cold, to battle the crusty winter fuck-it-alls. 2005 had basically come and gone without me witnessing one single ode, aside or tribute to commemorate the fact that The Dead Milkmen's debut album had turned 20 years old. Shame. Personally, I feel that it's one of the ten best albums ever made; prophetic and ridiculously ahead of its time. "Violence rules, guns are cool and we've got guns in our school." Damn straight.
Remarkably, the taxi stand in front of Port O' Call was devoid of cabs, so I pulled in and cut the engine. Because it was close to last call, it only took about three minutes of sitting there before somebody required my services (a finely-garbed douchebag, of course). "Hey, there are five of us. How much to The Hilton?"
In response, I asked, "Which one?"
Douchebag looked at me with disgust and said, "The one by the airport, smart guy. You got a problem with that?"
Huh? I was puzzled by Douchebag's combative tone and I almost told him to eat a big bowl of dick. However, a trip to The Airport Hilton generally nets 20 bucks, so I let it slide. I said, "No problem, my man. I just wanted to be sure which one."
The rest of Douchebag's troupe soon stumbled out of Port O' Ass a clichd, khaki-clad collection of out-of-state yuppies. Douchebag sat shotgun. His first order of business? Ejecting my tape. "What the fuck was that shit?" he asked, not really wanting an answer. He then began flipping through the FM dial. I bit my lip. It was only going to be five or ten minutes until these assholes were out of my life forever and I'd be 20 dollars richer because of it. The four tightly-packed businessmen in the back seat squawked on loudly with arrogant conversation and reprehensible opinions ("Rove is a fucking genius") as Douchebag landed on a classic rock station. Bad Company. Oh, Christ. We accelerated onto the freeway. I took deep breaths.
"Pretty shitty town you got here, my friend," stated Douchebag, interrupting his horrendous sing-along with Feel Like Making Love.
"Yeah, OK. Where are y'all from?" I asked.
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