the adventures of fussy girl


Fussy Girl was not in a good mood.

"Grrrr," she said.

She had been stuck in traffic for what seemed like hours. The cars were stacked up across the Bridge, all four lanes were like a parking lot. Some poor lost soul had apparently commited suicide that very day by throwing themselves from the bridge. The ensuing public stir had hopelessly snarled traffic well into the evening.

"If they would listen to me, this wouldn't happen," she fussed.

And it was true. It had been weeks ago that she had faxed a letter to the Department of Public Works to address this very problem.

"Dear Stupids," Fussy Girl had begun her fussy little letter. She had carefully typed out a plan for a modification to the Bridge to eliminate this sort of problem. Her suggestion was for City Work Crews to cut a hole in the guard rails and create a special "Suicide Lane." That way any worthless waste of skin who wanted to exit this world could do so with maximum convenience. This Suicide Lane would be open at all hours, with direct access to the deepest, coldest part of the Bay waters. Soon these pathetic losers would be dropping into the Ocean like lemmings, taking their stupid automobiles, briefcases, and -- with any luck -- families with them.

Fussy Girl was convinced that if they'd listened to her, she'd be home by now. The spectacle of an endless stream of idiots plunging to their too-long delayed deaths would become a regular feature on anyone's daily commute and therefore not be exciting enough to cause traffic delays.

"People are so lame," she fussed.


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