Imagine this, you’re driving through the desert, let’s say.. in the middle of Texas. Every few miles, a cute little rodent dashes across the road, you swerve to miss it, spill your Coke and curse a bit. At the same time, you pity the prairie dog– risking its life every day just to get where it’s going. Now imagine you’re rolling down Wilshire, trying to get to work on time, you’ve got coffee instead of Coke and this little varmit cuts you off:
Well that’s just ducky, sweetheart. I know you need to race over the Beverly Center so you can start folding clothes at the Gap, but mama’s gotta get to work too. Just as I’m getting my bitch on, I realize she’s all of 22 y.o.a. and rocking sneakers on her lipstick red Vespa. And, I start to melt. What is she thinking? If I’m gonna be t-boned by an anorexic Beverly Hills housewife who’s late to her pilates class, I’m going to at least have a little bit of leather. Not these Vespa chics. They’ll have flip flops, shorts, t-shirts and they’ll even bring their best friend along for the death ride:
Ug, ladies, ladies, ladies. (yeah, there are a lot of Vespa dudes… but butch, they’re not) To you I say, let’s not be ridiculous. This isn’t Capri, it’s Los Angeles. You’re gonna get hit and it’s not going to be pretty, not even Botox can save you from this one. Hang up the Italian scooter and drive… a real vehicle.