I dare you

[resonant]

resonant for some reason is imagining a new show called Stargate: Atlanta
resonant: in which they're just stuck in traffic all the time
resonant: and you can get a whole ep out of the day the air conditioner breaks.
shalott: bwahahahaha
shalott: dude
shalott: post that to lj
resonant: OK, why not.
shalott: and invite people to write drabbles for it
shalott: in the comments
shalott blithely arranges for you to be spammed with mail for my entertainment

[note. You can take them out of cars occasionally. I assume even people in Atlanta sometimes do something other than drive, such as work at the airport and stuff.]

Comments

[someinstant.livejournal.com]

(Hi. You don't know me from Adam, but I thought, "I live in Atlanta. I could do this.")


McKay fidgeted in his seat. The sun slanting in through the windshield was hitting him full in the face, and even though the air was on full blast, his face prickled with sweat. He reached for the vent again, tilting it first half an inch this way, then half an inch that way, then angling the blades up, then down, then--

"Don't."

"Don't what?" Rodney asked, peevishly. "Don't try and save myself from heatstroke?"

Sheppard's forehead wrinkled above his sunglasses; there had probably been an eye-roll somewhere behind the lenses. "No, Rodney," he said with false patience. "I know you. You were about three seconds away from ripping the vent out of the dashboard and trying to upgrade the A/C with a coathanger and a stick of gum while the engine was still running."

Rodney grunted. "I could have done it."

"I know you could," John said. "It still doesn't mean it's a good idea." They sat in silence for a moment.

"Could we at least turn on the radio?" McKay asked at last. The breaks on the eighteen-wheeler to their right sounded like they were moments away from failing, and Rodney thought he'd prefer to be distracted by bad pop music or NPR when that happened.

"No." Ten minutes after leaving Hartsfield, John had turned off the radio, and forbid McKay to touch it. Apparently, John didn't appreciate Rodney's clever critiquing of radio programming.

Rodney let his head fall against the window with a thunk. It wasn't like he could even amuse himself by looking at the scenery; they were walled in by tractor trailors on all sides-- and even if they hadn't been, it was just a lot of pines. And kudzu.

Pines covered with kudzu, actually-- and really, they almost looked like topiaries. Really crazy ones, the kind that Edward Scizzorhands might have designed. The one squeezed between the black H2 three cars up almost looked like the Horsehead Nebula, and the one next to it looked a little bit like Oscar the Grouch....

"McKay." John sounded amused. Or pissed off. Sometimes it was a little hard to differentiate.

"Hmm?" The trailor ahead of them inched forward.

"Is there any reason why you're humming the theme to Sesame Street?" John asked while simultaneously leaning on the horn, flicking off a Miata with a Keep honking while I re-load bumper sticker, checking his rearview mirror, sliding one lane to the right, and earning himself at least twenty new enemies in a single move.

The eighteen-wheeler in need of a break job was now directly behind them, a situation with which Rodney was not entirely comfortable.

"Did you even bother to signal, Major?" Rodney bit out, trying to pretend that he was just, you know, stretching his right leg. And not stomping furiously on an imaginary break.

"When in Rome, Rodney," John replied. "And-- Sesame Street?"

"Kudzu. Oscar the Grouch." Rodney shrugged. "I don't expect you to follow."

"Gotcha."

Silence decended once more. Rodney was still hot. The eighteen-wheelers were still blocking his view. There was still kudzu.

"How much farther?" he asked, trying to sound nonchalant.

John didn't answer.

"It can't be much farther," Rodney reasoned out loud. "Dobbins is, what, the first or second exit on 75 past 285?"

John nodded, his mouth twitching up at the corner. "Yep."

"And that exit is in three miles, right? So that's about six, maybe seven total."

"Mm-hm."

Rodney didn't like the sound of that.

"Mm-hmm what?" he asked suspiciously.

Sheppard's mouth twitched again. "You're asking the wrong question, Dr. McKay. In Atlanta, the question isn't 'how far?,' it's 'how long?' Time, not distance."

Rodney slouched lower in his seat. "So if I asked how long?"

"'Bout an hour."

Rodney's head hit the window. "Oh my god," he said. He thunked his head against the glass again. "Oh my god. People do this every day? No wonder they vote Republican. The commute probably drives them legally insane."

"Hey," John said, sounding chipper. "Want to play prime-not-prime with license plate numbers?"

[someinstant.livejournal.com]

Um, 'brake,' not 'break.'

It's almost four in the morning. That's my story and I'm sticking to it.

<sub>And because I'm an utter dork, here (http://www.mapquest.com/directions/main.adp?go=1&do=nw&rmm=1&un=m&cl=EN&ct=NA&rsres=1&1ahXX=&1y=US&1a=&1c=Atlanta&1s=GA&1z=&2ahXX=&2y=US&2a=&2c=Marietta&2s=GA&2z=) is the route John and Rodney are taking. Note that it's technically only twenty miles from Hartsfield International to Dobbins Air Reserve Base. Note that MapQuest is foolishly optimistic and says you can make the drive in under half an hour.

MapQuest is a dirty rotten liar.</sub>

Also, the six-miles-in-one-hour thing is something that has happened to me several times. Oh, how I long for decent public transportation

*facepalm* stupid HTML

[wtfbrain.livejournal.com]

Rodney, being Canadian, would probably be talking in minutes/hours instead of miles/kilometres anyway. For some strange reason, I've noticed that Canadians do this... "How far is it from here to Calgary? Oh, about an hour and a half."

[resonant8.livejournal.com]

Oh, excellent!

"I know you. You were about three seconds away from ripping the vent out of the dashboard and trying to upgrade the A/C with a coathanger and a stick of gum while the engine was still running."

Rodney grunted. "I could have done it."

I love that.

And kudzu!

[dzurlady.livejournal.com]

Hee! I loved these bits:
"Did you even bother to signal, Major?" Rodney bit out, trying to pretend that he was just, you know, stretching his right leg. And not stomping furiously on an imaginary break.
and
Rodney's head hit the window. "Oh my god," he said. He thunked his head against the glass again. "Oh my god. People do this every day? No wonder they vote Republican. The commute probably drives them legally insane."

"Hey," John said, sounding chipper. "Want to play prime-not-prime with license plate numbers?"
Because traffic *is* crazy making. Thank god I've never been in traffic that bad. :)

[amoeba-j.livejournal.com]

"You're asking the wrong question, Dr. McKay. In Atlanta, the question isn't 'how far?,' it's 'how long?' Time, not distance."

...out-of-towners have no idea how true this really is until they've tried to cross I-285's top-end at rush hour :p
[and forget about trying to drive from the suburbs to downtown if the Braves are playing!]

People do this every day? No wonder they vote Republican. The commute probably drives them legally insane."
this had me laughing so hard I nearly exploded!

I admit that I found this b/c I've read resonant8's HP fic and decided to check out the LJ, so I have no idea who these characters are here, but it doesn't seem to matter -- the hatefulness of Atlanta traffic transcends fandoms!

[agonistes]

I have never seen Stargate.

I read this and went SO TRUE OMG. (I live well north of Dobbins.)

Now I want to see their reactions on seeing the Big Chicken...

[(Anonymous)]

Having lived in Birmingham for a year, I've heard many, many horror stories about Atlanta traffic. I'm pleased to know they're all true.

Other than that... this was great, especially the danger to the A/C. Poor, poor Rodney.

Kara