Traffic School

So I just went to my first traffic school class as a result of my first ticket, ever, which I got some time last year (for speeding to try to get around the cop that boxed me out of the lane I needed to get into). The entire experience was absurd. From 6:00 to 10:00! I'm telling you, the next time I'm just paying the fucking fine. The instructor fit the mold of who you'd assume would be teaching this course during this time of night, several times a week. Typical dork, who has convinced himself that he's super clever and we're laughing at his jokes (more like stabs at anything obvious) because he's really funny, and not because we want that little piece of paper we need in order to make this agony worthwhile. He wasn't that bad, but he was a bit on the dickish side. A tall, lanky black dude walked in with baggy jeans and he told him to pull his pants up. Had he said something like that to me, that would have been a bad scene. I thought to myself, "you know, you should lose 120 lbs, but no one is telling you to skip your next cheeseburger." There was a huge, and I mean HUGE, mural of some late eighteenth/early nineteenth century gay colony above the judge's bench (the class was in a courtroom), showing all the men were cut and tanned as they worked hard to put up a fort by a river, while doing so in close proximity to one another. One of the men in the mural looked like John Kerry, another like Jack Nicholson in The Shining. In the forefront was some colonial-looking representative, didn't look like any historical figure I could place (probably Henry Clay?), possibly handing a proclamation or something to what looked to possibly be Daniel Boone's back and side-profile, fuck if I know. Behind these guys were said half-naked, sweaty dudes wearing leather pants and moccasins, chopping wood, carrying posts, seemingly putting up a fort. I was bored and it was a very distracting scene, so I started to draw a miniature version in my notebook. [I didn't say it was any good]

 At some point the instructor was trying to be funny with his hands and wanted everyone watching his antics, so he said, "Excuse me Miss, could you not work on your manifesto?" What the fuck is that supposed to mean? I have bleached hair, a nose-ring, docs and flood's on, so clearly, since I'm not paying attention to the babbling giant tub of lard in front of me, I must be writing some kind of manifesto. Maybe he didn't mean anything by it, it was just an interesting choice of words.

Yarmuth has an office in the building, which I can use as my excuse to go back there. I'd love to go back and take a picture of it. I would be satisfied to confirm that they hired a gay artist or someone with an awesome sense of humor to paint this comically distracting giant hot scene, where it resides over every case that passes through that court room. It could be copied from another painting, I have no idea, but I like my version better.

If the statistics are that these same people will end up back in that class again and again, isn't the scam really that the state is just taking the money all at once that you'd otherwise be paying out to your insurance company as an increase in your rate over several months? I mean, it wasn't cheap. I don't know, it just seems pointless to me, and I don't know anyone that has 4 hours to waste at night or on a Saturday.

And I got a 6 hours of sleep cumulatively today, so now my body thinks I'm good to go. The cycle starts again. At least the PMS is gone. So there's that.

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