Most of us have that wonderful morning and evening ritual Monday through Friday known as the Commute to Work. We relish this as much as the next poor schlep sitting still in his vehicle during RUSH hour. It is very ironic that they would even THINK about calling this gridlocked time period anything remotely resembling an adverb that describes motion. Of course, you could argue that it describes the time it takes for most people to rally forward to their next stopping point approximately fifteen to twenty feet from their previous place.
I am curious where these idiots think they are going when they jam their foot to the floorboard of their 2001 GMC Monster Truck sized SUV? You can see the brake lights on every car for two and a half miles ahead of them and they try to break a land speed record for that three car length movement. You’ve seen them. They dart in and out of three lanes of traffic like a Ritalin deprived kid with A.D.D. Do they think that by beating out enough cars in a traffic jam that they’ll get where they are going any quicker?
Just a tip: if the vehicle you are in is 20 feet long, you have to pass 264 vehicles the same size to gain one mile. Quit being an “A” type personality fucking jerk off and settle the fuck down. One mile an hour isn’t going to get you there much less than sixty seconds sooner and the poor bastard you just rear ended is going to have to wait with you for the State Trooper to show up and fill out the accident report. Estimated Time of Arrival; one hour and fifty four minutes. How much faster are you going to arrive now? Don’t even think about the fact that the rest of us are going to get there much slower because you are too stupid to move the damned accident vehicles OFF of the highway. Once you do get your smashed heap out of the lanes of traffic(?); every rubberneck in the galaxy has to slow down to a crawl to see if anyone died when you hammered that Mini Cooper with a two story building on wheels.
This is another thing that sucks about the way you drive. DO NOT give more than a passing glance to the piled up wreckage as you drive by. Have you ever noticed that there are usually two or three sets of cars that have been in accidents in the same vicinity? That’s because some dumb ass decided that there was enough reason to gawk at the cars on the side of the road that they forget to WATCH WHAT THE FUCK THEY ARE DOING!! The next thing you know, two or three of these morons create the same thing they were so inquisitive about in the first place. I know a traffic accident is much the same as a train wreck. You really don’t want to see the carnage, but you just can’t help but look. Good, pull the fuck OFF of the highway, get out your Sure Shot camera and picnic basket so you can make it into a family slide show for later. Don’t fucking worry about the shit going on across the median either. It is too far away for your inquiring fucking mind to want to know anyway. Pay attention to the dickhead in front of you that jammed on the skidders so his wife and kids can see the grotesquely mangled forms hanging out of the wreckage. Now get the fuck out of there before they decide to block off all eight lanes of traffic to bring in the Trauma Hawk to life flight out a couple of soon to be corpses.
It is a FUCKING TOW TRUCK! Haven’t you ever seen someone change a God Damned tire? Maybe if you pull over; the poor bastard with the flat will let YOU change it so you can see first hand how the entire operation works. Don’t try to figure out the process while you clog up a lane of moving vehicles on the fucking interstate.
If you see an Officer of the Law next to the highway, he is doing one of three things.
- He is waiting for your speeding ass to come into view so he can tag you with the latest in Laser/ Radar technology and give you and the pack of low altitude missiles that you are travelling with tickets for flying too low. This means that as soon as you see him it is too late to lock up the brakes and avoid the ticket. What you will accomplish by doing this is ensuring that the officer can radio for the accident investigation squad to come out and not only give you additional tickets for stupidity but remove that Toyota Supra suppository from your moronic ass.
- He is investigating the accident that all those other fuckers are craning their necks to see what happened and if anyone survived the collision. Watch the road for debris and lookey look mother fuckers, but by all means proceed before you get tagged in the ass harder and faster than a drunken sailor in a Key West drag bar.
- He is writing a ticket to another Sultan of Speed. Proceed as described in # 2. He is probably too busy screaming at that guy and thumbing the snap on the holster of his H&K .40 caliber smart ass eradicator to pay much attention to you breaking the speed of sound as you pass by. Be wary though, they travel in packs like wolves and you might want to check your rearview mirror in case his buddy was hiding behind that Speed Kills billboard you blew the paint off of as you went by.
I am a firm believer that just because you drive fast doesn’t mean you possess the skill to drive fast. Read the statistics from the National Highway Safety Administration. They report about a bunch of numb nuts that thought they could drive fast EVERYWHERE they went. A lot of them went from zero to graveyard a fuck of a lot quicker than they thought possible. At a hundred miles an hour the road surface becomes very narrow in your line of sight. Any slight reaction or over reaction will fuck you harder than a pissed off pachyderm giving his cow a grudge fuck.
They have speed limits on the road for a reason. To try to maintain some safety for everyone out there. Don’t get me wrong; I enjoy the thrill of a hundred miles an hour and occasionally do so, but not at 3 o’clock in the afternoon in front of the parochial school crossing guard trying to herd the little shits across the street. Those minimum speed limits are just as important. If you or your vehicle can’t handle a brisk 40 miles per hour on an interstate highway; stay the fuck off of it. I realize that there are times that your car, truck, motorcycle or other conveyance decides after you wheeled onto the superhighway of choice that it just doesn’t feel like going faster than nineteen miles a weekend. So, pull the fuck over to the breakdown lane and limp to the nearest exit. Four way flashers don’t mean that you won’t get an enema from a hulking Kenworth hauling bridge parts. Just try to get out of the way of the traffic that CAN do the speed limit.
Turn signals are the most unused and misused feature on vehicles today. The idea is that you are letting the vehicles around you know what you intend to do, even if you have no clue yourself. Putting on a turn signal doesn’t guarantee that you won’t get that same K’Whopper grinding your ass to dust if you get in his way. Make sure there isn’t someone occupying or about to occupy the space on the roadway you intend to penetrate BEFORE you zip into it. This would mean that if I am doing 50 and you are doing 30 it is probably not a good idea to just whip out into my lane. Not only are you about to see the universal “You’re Number One” gesture, but your vocabulary will benefit from the ear beating you are about to receive. This is all in retrospect if we do collide. Auto, Life, Health, and Hospitalization insurance would be a great thing to own in that instance.
The fact that you didn’t use a signal doesn’t surprise me either. Hell, I expect to get pulled out in front of more often than not. This still doesn’t mean I am creeping along at 15 M.P.H. everywhere I go.
Crotch Rockets seem to have the most fucking dipshits on the planet operating them. If you are a bike rider, you know the old adage, “There are two kinds of riders; the ones who have gone down and the ones who are about to go down” and I don’t mean on your sweetheart. If you are one of the ones that has gone down you know not to go zipping in between cars, trucks, busses, and commercial well drilling equipment at speeds that make your face hurt from the G forces pulling it into that comical movie expression the actors make when a rocket ship takes off. One errant car door can park your happy ass in the cheap seats permanently. If you haven’t gotten your socks rocked off yet and fall into the second category, I will pray that you don’t go splat on your first venture into the wild blue yonder. Just because you are wearing a helmet does not make you into a cosmonaut. You will love the feeling of wind in your hair and under your ass but you will most likely end up doing the asphalt disco with a distinctive road rash slide at the end. Soccer Moms love you guys. You don’t make large unsightly dents on their Yukons and Expeditions. Hell, they can wipe you off with the bug glub squeegee at the local Gas and Go. This brings me to the most notorious known natural enemy of a two wheeled iron horse.
Just what the fuck is the correlation between age and the size of the car you are driving. If you see a 1969 Dodge Polara (the longest car manufactured) travelling at thirteen miles an hour in a forty five mile an hour zone, you can rest assured that it is piloted by someone’s great grandmother. Unfortunately for us she probably can barely see past the length of the hood let alone anything smaller than the Sears Tower in front of her. She can’t look over the steering wheel so she has to peer through the opening created between the top of the dashboard and the hole in the steering wheel. You’ve seen her. Don’t laugh. She can take up more roadway than a double wide loaded tractor trailer jack knifed on a hairpin turn. She makes right hand turns from the far left lane. Changes direction less often than she sheds her Depends. Basically she navigates that fucking land barge into the path of everything on the planet. Best to just give it a wide berth until the coast is clear enough to shoot through like her prune juice and Metamucil cocktail did earlier, fast and unnoticed.
Continued…………Here
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Great post. So was “The Good Old Days”.
damn hell…that was good. Midwestern Drivers are the worst motherfuckers i’ve ever experienced. Ever. Fucking Bastards…all of them. I’m actually totally seriously about that. I need to grow ten more middle fingers and an entire new vocabulary of cusswords just to deal with their unprecedented, head-up-the-ass stupidity from hell.
You know, I get in my car in the morning, turn on someting nice like peaceful classical music and within ten minutes I’m cussing like a psychobitch from hell, and I’ve got goddamn 93X screaming from my speakers. And I’m like screaming along with it, screeching fuck you’s out of both corners of my mouth at the same time every time I pass another dickwad.
and I’ll tell you, the red pickups are THE worst drivers on the planet. Fucking raging hillbilly cowboy wannabes with no fucking clue. I saw two of them in the ditch within ten minutes of each other the other week - both on their sides with headlights staring vacantly out of their front end as if to say profoundly, “oops, what was that.” It’s called ice, dumbasses.
Shit. And I wasn’t even on the road just now.
I love it when I help bring out the REAL person behind the screen.
Classical my ass. You know you want to be listening to SPEED metal and banging your head on that drive to work.
I do. People will go three lanes out of the way when they get close enough to hear me screaming the the lyrics to the Offspring “Bad habit”
Yeah, some of us were put here to serve as a BAD example. I like this place. Tell your friends because the RUDE Dude is going to settle in and hash some shit out of his system REGULARLY!
Couldn’t have said it any better. I love the Pittsburgh drivers who find it necessary to pass the car that is doing 65 by speeding up to 66 when everyone else in the passing lane is cruising along at 75.
You know what pisses me the hell off. It’s the fucking tailgaters that will ride your ass all over the residential streets and when they get up to a red light they sit there and wank off for HOURS after the light has turned green. Reflexes people. Find the gas peddle and PUSH IT.
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