CHAR-BROILED COMMUTE

I should know better than to keep going when I see the sign for a flagman ahead on my ride home. It's still shorter driving straight through roadwork than going down the crowded main thoroughfare. 

Eh, I figure, what's a little delay going to hurt me?

They're repaving the road ahead, one side at a time, and several trucks are lined up on the hot macadam.  Working on the new road are probably about a dozen people, multiple trucks, and three police officers.  I see two cars ahead of me, and we are being waved through, so I hop into the line.

We are bumper to bumper, and, in order to avoid the construction vehicles, we must drive dangerously close to both the workers and the telephone poles on the other side.  It's like driving slalom through human gates.

As soon as I approach the final hurdle, the last truck, the edge of the paving, I notice fire shooting out from one of the trucks.  The car in front of me gets through, no problem, so I go by, as well, about eight inches from the big rig, the fire shooting right into my tires as I pass quickly.

This is not normal.  I know that fire doesn't just shoot out and that I probably shouldn't be careening through it. As soon as I plow on through, mouth agape in confusion, I look into my side mirror and see flames erupt all around the truck, workers running amok.

Holy shit, people.  I am a fraction of a second ahead of becoming embroiled in a vehicle barbecue.

Much as I'd like to stop and help, I am somewhat terrified that the French Tunnel Effect will happen.  Years ago people and vehicles were fried alive when a car fire started a series of explosions during rush hour traffic inside a traffic tunnel in France.  More concerned for my own safety, I drive as fast as I can away from the scene, half-expecting to hear a giant explosion followed by another then another as the construction caravan turns into a conflagration.

I try to put this all into perspective: Tomorrow I am having minor surgery, and right now it seems like a much better option than recovering in a burn unit, which I understand (from knowing people who've been in them and people/saints who work in them) is a hell of a lot worse that having some stitches in my face.

Now I hear there's an armed clown a mile and a half from my house.  Dafuq.  Seriously.Armed.  Clown.  Armed.  ??????

 I almost become char broil this afternoon and tonight the damn lunatic fringe is loose in my neighborhood, so I'm feeling pretty lucky right about now. I'm not a charcoal briquet nor am I full of holes, so a little Bride of Frankenstein facial scarring will be okay.