I was recently involved in a car accident. My very first car accident in Los Angeles, actually. It was nothing major. Everyone is OK. It’s hard to do too much damage when you’re going 10 miles per hour.
Whathadhappenedwas, we were driving up the PCH to Paradise Cove in Malibu (which might as well be in Seattle, it’s so far away fromeverything) when we got rammed in the back by a red Saturn. I’ve always wondered how someone can have a fendy bendy in dead-stopped traffic, and now I know—cellphones. Turns out, Old Girl was texting while she was creeping and forgot to hit the brakes. (Apparently she hadn’t seen that very special episode of Glee.)
But the phone isn’t what was upsetting about our experience. We’re all guilty of fondling our phones in traffic. I’m not upset with the lady that bumped me. No, I’m upset at everyone else in traffic that day.
If you’re familiar with the PCH in Santa Monica, you know that while heading north, there are no places to pull over. None. If for some reason you do make it over to turn left into one of the beach parking lots, good luck trying to actually make that turn. No one will let you cross. It’s not gonna happen. I was taught that when you have an accident, you pull over as quickly as possible to exchange information. Instead of driving for another 20 minutes to find a place to pull over and risk losing her, I opted to hop out of my car right there on the PCH and grab her info. In and out in less than a minute.
That was one of the most hurtful minutes of my life.
First, people started honking. But not just kind of honking, FULL-ON HORN BLASTING. Almost like the horn in Little Miss Sunshine, I’d wondered if everyone’s horns had broken at the same time. Then they started screaming out their windows. They were calling me names. They were calling her names. Names so horrible I couldn’t possibly print them because I’m pretty sure I’d get arrested. Some people even called us racial slurs that didn’t even pertain to our race. One lady called me a name that I had never heard before, but it still made me want to cry.
Now guess how many people stopped to help us or asked if we were OK? Yeah, none. Nobody. Everyone just honked and yelled and drove on by.
This is the Twitter society. The YouTube generation. The BuzzFeed babies. Everyone thinks it’s totally fine to say the most horrible things to other human beings and then just drive away free of responsibility. No one has manners anymore. Young parents are too busy making memes of their kids crying to teach their kids how to treat other people. I would never do that.
Having said that, I won’t tell pretty people they have food in their teeth. Because really, what do I get out of it? I mean, they’re already beautiful. Having some spinach in their grill isn’t going to ruin their day. They already have so much they’re working with. I need them to have food in their teeth. It’s all I’ve got. Also, follow me on Twitter @toddmasterson. More followers would really make me feel better about myself.
Todd Masterson is a comedian, writer, and producer. He lives in West Hollywood with his tiny partner, Rob, and their little black pug, Braddock. Todd has written for several icons, including Joan Rivers and James Franco. He recently produced season 7 of RuPaul’s Drag Race and currently produces a monthly stand-up show in West L.A. called The Talkies. When he's not onstage being an adorable giant, Todd can be found stomping up the hill at Runyon Canyon or at home obsessing over social media like a 12 year-old girl.