Pothole Season

It’s my least favorite season in the burgh – pothole season. You seriously can not go 20 feet without seeing a pothole. And I’m not talking about those little southern potholes. I’m talking about the huge, yawning abyss type pothole. The kind that swallow cars. For real – there are several instances every year where a pothole becomes a sinkhole and swallows a Buick.

There was a story on the news a few days ago about one that was so bad (and so unavoidable, since it is paired with Pittsburgh also-treacherous narrow streets, steep hills and blind curves) which was blowing tire after tire during the previous day’s morning rush hour, resulting in a group of about 30 people gathered in a parking lot at the bottom of the hill, all going, “What the fuck?” One woman lost two tires, a rim and part of her car’s frame to that particular black hole of death.

And the best part about Pittsburgh potholes is the way they are dealt with. See, we don’t fix th potholes right away. Instead, we have a dedicated team of people that go out with bright orange spray paint and circle the pothole. This is extremely helpful, because now you have a split second to grab your cell phone, dial your family and tell them you love them before hurtling to your death. Before the circle maneuver was implemented, your imminent demise took you completely by surprise. Now - thanks to the neon “Hey look! A pothole!” - you have a chance to say goodbye.

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And if the pothole warning system doesn’t make us look redneck enough, these folks surely will.

Although – at least we aren’t West Virginia, I guess.