Arvada’s Response to the G-Line Tests Illustrates How Astonishing it is That Anyone Here is Even Able to Put on Pants in the Morning

Without a doubt, and it has been said before, my favorite ax to grind is Colorado’s Regional Transport District. Seemingly resolute in their determination to prove that contracting out what should be a public utility to the lowest bidders actually undermines the lauded efficiencies of capitalism, they almost stand in direct defiance of America’s predominant worldview. It’s a case study as to why certain industries should never be run as a profit-motivated business.

It’s like a satire of a transit agency. Their trains are better vessels to commit suicide with than commute to work in. I’ve met heroin addicts more punctual than the overworked and underpaid operators and the construction and opening of new lines goes about as smoothly as rubbing your cock on a belt sander. It’s trash. It’s for the birds. Their board of directors ought to be flayed to ribbons, smoked and cured, and then turned into birdcage liner. A loosely-affiliated network of Romanian gypsy cab dispatchers could replace them with better results, a higher level of customer satisfaction, and less life-threatening stab wounds.

But in regards to the citizenry of Arvada complaining about the long-awaited, infinitely delayed G-Line testing process, for once I’m going to do the unthinkable and defend the absolute bane of my existence. My unyielding, vicious crusade will briefly take a knee to concentrate on the flank of another front, a group so vile I hate them even more than the tax scam artists at RTD: the people of Arvada, Colorado.

If you’ve never lived or worked in Arvada, let me break it down for you: everyone here is either 91 years-old with completely nothing to do or 12 and-a-half with completely nothing to do. They roll up the sidewalks at about ten at night, making the only people still awake in town cops looking for the seventeen drunk white supremacists driving around after hanging out at a strip-mall dive bar that is named after the shopping center it’s nestled into. There are no jobs outside of short-lived retail stores run by former stay-at-home moms needing a pet project, the corporate service industry (or smaller restaurants barely fighting off their seventh sexual harassment lawsuit), or wiping the shit out of the asses of the generation that ruined this country (but somehow still own every rental property in the metro area not gobbled up by some Air B&B Techbro from Riverside, CA or scummy housing flipper) in the various retirement and nursing homes that dot the post-farming community landscape. Any quaint charm said farming industry might have had is disintegrated by the view of four starving, token horses the property owner keeps alive while he waits for a development company to buy him out and build a new gaudy subdivision with substandard building materials. If you’re a licensed EMT, you can work for one of the 30 private urgent care facilities, where you drive an ambulance around town annoying everybody while you cart out the aged dead at rates unseen since the Black Plague.

For reasons unclear to me, there’s still an influx of Gen-X idiots who, possibly trying to recreate their negligent, absent parent’s examples, buy houses here to raise doomed, bored children. They have terrific opportunities: constant curfew harassment from the local authorities, most of which are too fat to qualify for the Denver Police Department and thus easy to get away from if you know the area or own a bicycle, or be subject to constant trespassing tickets as anything remotely interesting to do is fenced off and owned by a holdings company or under a state of constant youth sports scheduling regulation. The schools are fantastic: on the west side of town, you can be date-raped by lacrosse fratboys-in-training at Ralston Valley (go Mustangs!) before overdosing on somebody’s parent’s back pain pills, or you can venture east, to have a train run on you by the juggalo tweens at Arvada and Arvada West (my alma mater) before choking on your own vomit after booting black tar heroin with a kid who calls himself Raven. If downers aren’t your thing, meth comes back in fashion roughly every six to seven years and will kill a kid you were in second grade with. This is a place where dogs bite people unprovoked at a place named Rockabilly’s.

Which brings us to Olde Towne Arvada, the epicenter of millennials who got priced out of Denver four years ago but still want to live in a 500 square-foot apartment painted some bullshit pastel color with outdoor metal accent walls. Once the stomping grounds of old ladies looking to loiter in an antique store or find the opportunity to forget they were dying for an hour-and-a-half at a bead emporium; in anticipation of the new G-Line train Olde Towne has rebranded as a hip bar and restaurant district! Nearly every stop on this hotly anticipated train line has built out a bunch of tacky “mixed-use” overpriced shitholes, so what was once “the place up Kipling where the Carl’s Jr/gas station combo is off the highway near Target” is now the Arvada Ridge. 60th and Sheridan, which is where you drink if you’re on parole, is now Arvada: Gold Strike. It’s like the SoDoSoPa episode of South Park except they’ll never get a Whole Foods built here because the Trump supporters would constantly call in bomb threats over the soy content.

These dullards, who if they were longtime residents spent actual time of their lives yelling at city councilors and congresspeople about how they already paid for a tax hike that was going to give them their own choo-choo, and if they were vulture newcomers sunk investment money to redevelop the area and price out longtime residents, are actually complaining that after YEARS of delays, the train is too loud during its testing phase. Every one of these rubes should be shot into the sun. It isn’t enough that I have to ride the bus with these decrepit bags of bones (for two whole stops, in which it takes them a total of nine minutes to board and disembark), now, as RTD attempts to feign it as progress to save face, they’re cutting testing time almost in half after outrage from residents. Look at these greedy, short-sighted yokel idiots:

Not realizing that now it might take even longer for the train to become operational, they’re complaining that the entire thing that is raising their property values and giving them return on their vulturous investments is inconvenient and some of them are even threatening to cut bait. Talk about getting in your own way, which is what I hope the vast majority of them do to the lightrail train. If you want to read some more technical details, because you’re a railfan or whatever, check out the Denverite’s breakdown about how RTD technical ineptitude has wrecked not just the G-Line, but the abysmal A-Line airport train as well.

At this time, your thoughts and prayers would be appreciated in the direction of a rogue state developing nuclear weapons to drop directly on Arvada, the dumbest suburban shithole in America and the place I’ve wasted the most of my dumb, pointless life in. Fuck this place and everybody in it.

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