We're on the Toll Road to Hell, driving in the diamond lane.

I'm back again, after a short hiatus. I was climbing the Andes, let's say. Yes, that will do.

Nobody seems to bat an eye at the name of my blog. At least, I've never had a question that runs along the lines of "Why... milk?". It's very true, there are other things that could be considered both silent and killers. Ninjas, for example.

I don't know if you expect me to go on some diatribe about how milk is harmful to America and the world, and if we don't cease milk production right now, well, we're colossally fucked. Unfortunately, I don't do crazy conspiracy theorist, so you're out of luck. Although you do have to question why the Dairy council spends so much on advertising. What terrible secret are they trying to gloss over? Think about it...

I have a long commute each day- somewhere between 90-120 minutes a day. That's two hours of sitting in a car in traffic. I usually refer to it as Fun City, land of ultimate enjoyment. I am also a sarcastic asshole. Fortunately, there are things to do to pass the time. The radio is a source of entertainment unparalleled by any other device. Certainly, there's nothing more enjoyable than hearing "I walk alone" by Green Day every 3.23 minutes, unless it's tuning in to "Angry McAnger" on an AM station rail at a caller about how the goddamned liberals are murdering babies to distill into sweet, sweet liquor to give to priests who will then allow same-sex marriages. I'm still waiting for some well-reasoned caller to phone in and convince the bile-spitting host that he's being unreasonable. I would give anything to hear him (and the outraged partisan lunatic is almost always played by a man) say "Oh, I hadn't thought about it that way." Then the radio would implode.

It's not to say that all radio is horrible. I often listen to Mr. Howard Stern, if for no other reason than he doesn't interrupt his program every 2 minutes for commercials. Likewise, Phil Hendrie is a good source of entertainment- the unique perversity of each individually warms my soul like a miniature butane stove.

Another fine pasttime is watching other people in traffic. These people are your compatriots in suffering. A truer vision of hell there never was than neverending traffic on a hot summer day. Ok, maybe fire and brimstone is a truer vision of hell, but you never know. Satan's a crafty guy, he could come up with something like that. You don't get to be the Lord of the Underworld by resting on your "pitchforks-and-accordians" laurels.

There are a number of different people in traffic. They are:

Person zoning out- this is someone who is lost in their own thoughts. It's kind of frightening that they're behind the wheel of a car, but at least they're not watching porn on their in-car DVD player

Person on cell phone- this is someone who has no idea that they're in traffic. In fact, you could bludgeon them to death with a table leg and they would still have their phone up to their ear.

Lane-switcher- This person is constantly switching lanes to "move forward". It's funny to watch them flagellete their cars, and it's okay to take a perverse pleasure in passing them.

Shoulder driver- is someone who decides to make their own lane by driving on the shoulder of the road. Often, they are trying to reach the next exit. Sometimes, they're trying to reach Minnesota.

The Blocker- This person's only job is to stop Shoulder Driver from doing anything. They maneuver their car in such a way that nobody will pass them using illegal means, including emergency vehicles. Also known as Uptight asshole.

The Crane- Can be found extending their entire torso out the window in order to solve the mystery of why all the cars are stopped. I'm not sure why they do this- even if they do find the cause, it's not going to help them. Does a secret path open up for those who find the reason for the traffic? I think not.

It's a curious amalgamation of folks, and I think we have all taken the place of one or more of these archetypes. It does prove, however, that we need cars that drive themselves while we sit in the back, sipping mixed drinks and watching strippers make out. Oh wait, that's called a limo.

Anyways, now you know why it's called Milk: The silent killer.