The Perfect Storm

The only thing worse for the free flow of traffic than a school bus, is the creature known as the “benny”. As Memorial Day weekend swiftly approaches, locals make futile attempts to prepare for an unholy invasion from the north. Crawling down the parkway, shore denizens must deal with a flood of New York license plates (and an absurd total from Quebec), sometimes making a 3 mile trip take 45 minutes. Sitting in gridlock makes it easy to look into the windows of benny SUVs and see the same thing over and over again: a burly Italian guy in the driver’s seat, his unnaturally tanned bitch of a wife reclined in the passenger seat, with her bare feet up on the dashboard, or worse yet, hanging out the window, and usually a couple of bratty guido larvae in the backseat. New Yorkers, who have hundreds of miles of beaches on Long Island, insist on coming down here each year, clogging up our roads, our beaches and our general sense of happiness, and it needs to be stopped.  New Yorkers should be forcefully stopped at the bridges and borders, and even Jerseyans from the northeast should be corralled in their dirty, smoggy corner, and don’t even get me started on Canadians.

Now, as it is, New Jersey deals with an unfortunate phenomenon of everybody living south and working north, which creates a horrid trip in one direction in the morning, and the other in the afternoon. “The Perfect Storm” is what I refer to Friday evenings as, between Memorial Day and Labor Day, where Friday rush hour traffic is compounded by weekend benny traffic, making any highway heading south a nightmare of epic proportions. It’s like two colossal storm fronts meeting and creating a monster, just like in the movie, except this time it’s not going after George Clooney and Mark Wahlberg. It’s going after you, me, and everything we hold sacred here.

To all the locals who have to deal with this quagmire each summer, join me in a chant of “bennies go home!”, and stay safe. Goodnight, and good luck.