Wednesday, June 15, 2005

Put Down the Keys and
Step Away from the Vehicle

Sure we all have freewill, but the idiots in Portland who've hornswaggled a driver's license from the State can't seem to operate their vehicles unless I'm yelling instructions to them. So that they can better hear the instructions, I'm must be mere inches away from their bumpers.

It amazes me how people revere the written word but not the written number. One might think that a three-foot sign with big black numbers would be a clear directive to drive at least 55 mph. And as slowly as these morons amble by each sign on the freeway, there could be no doubt in their minds as to the number posted. There are only two digits to keep straight. There's no math involved. All one must do is to match the numbers on the speedometer to the numbers on the big sign. Can you tell which numbers in your car look like the ones on the sign? That's where the needle needs to be, or preferrably, a little to the right.

Apparently, the Banfield--or I-84, is where people get the best cell phone reception, because that's where they all head when they need to make a call. During the middle of the day, the little bit of traffic manages to bottleneck because some idiot can't dial and drive at the same time. So the brake lights come on. Again and again and again. Pull the fuck over asshole.

What on earth is so important that you need to be on your phone at this minute? "Well, there is so much to do, and I just don't have enough time. I can't be everywhere at once."

You could if you took your foot off the brake, you stupid yuppie asswipe.

I hate driving. OK, I don't actually hate driving, I hate everybody else driving at the same time, on the same roads as I. I have road rage the minute I get in my car, still parked in the driveway--because I know the city's arterials and highways are infested with housewives in minivans who 'slow down for kids' sake' and granola-headed do-gooders who can't keep their eyes on the road because they're busy 'visualizing whirrled peas' and old people wearing hats that have had the blinker on since 1994.

What is it about the "Slower Traffic Keep Right" that you don't understand? Oh, you don't understand English, I see. Well that makes perfect sense. If I run your boxy little Toyota-- with the menagere of stuffed animals piled against your back window--off the road, will your English improve by the time the cops get there?

Instead of uniform traffic laws, there ought to be rules for shitty drivers, and privileges for the rest of us. Ramming into some gum-chomping, clueless tart while she's gluing on false eyelashes should be legal. If I have to drive behind someone who's going 40 in a 55 mph zone, then I shouldn't get a ticket for going 50 in a 35 mph zone. If I get pulled over, the ticket should be forgiven on the basis of driving the retroactive speed limit. As long as it averages out in the end--let me drive fast somewhere.

Of course, there's only so much vengence I can inflict from my bright green, VW Bug. The worst thing being that if I piss someone off, I don't blend into traffic very well. If I were ever the subject of a high-speed chase, what you'd see from the news chopper is a runaway Skittle weaving in and out of traffic.

And why are fines higher in school zones? That's just asking for trouble. If I'm going to pay $400 for speeding through a 20 mph zone, I'm damn well going to run over a kid or two to get my money's worth. The problem with the little fuckers nowadays, is that thanks to video games, their reflexes are sharp and their vision is really good. But it's a numbers game--I'm bound to get a few of them, as long as I keep trying.

My birthday is coming up soon, and I only want two things: A Hummer and diplomatic immunity.

Beep beep beep.



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