I don’t know about where you live, but the fucking awful winter we Mountaineers have just endured was just brutal on the roads. There are swimming pool-sized craters every 10 feet in every road in town, and I don’t mean kiddie-pool swimming pools, I mean Olympic-size swimming pools.
Well, perhaps I exaggerate, just a little. It’s really every five feet.
Anyway, what I notice while driving around in my ‘03 Civic is that people who drive those big honkin’ SUVs and “Ford TOUGH” trucks and all those bigass badass vehicles you see in commercials, driving over sequoias and boulders as if they were Lincoln Logs and reaching the pinnacle of Everest — all those vehicles that sneer at what shows up at the Monster Truck jam at an arena near you — those people are scared to death of little bitty obstacles like potholes. Nothing quite like cruising down the road and suddenly spotting a fucking Suburban coming straight at you, in your lane, because the driver went around an inch-deep pothole.
Cheese and crackers, what did you BUY that fucker for?
I hate that. HATE it.
I also hate it when people treat the turn lane like a through lane. You know the type? She’ll make a left out of a parking lot intending to make another left maybe a half mile down the road, but won’t bother to get in the actual lane you’re supposed to drive in, no way, she’ll drive RIGHT DOWN THE FUCKING TURN LANE.
One day this winter, on a spectacularly bad night, I was driving home from the office and had to use a road that has several steep hills. It was bad enough that cars would stop at the bottom of a hill and wait for the driver ahead to slide and spin up, giving plenty of room, before taking on the hill themselves. Anyway, my turn comes and I’m doing the spinning and sliding part up the hill and trying to stay out of the ditch and in my rearview all I can see is a set of headlights RIGHT ON MY ASS. I had come to enough complete stops at dips in the road that this guy could have gone around me anytime he wanted, yet he rode my ass up these ice-covered hills.
Finally we came to a red light and — I’m not really proud of this — I got out of my car, tromped back to his (it was a Jeep or Suburban or some such, of course) and when he rolled down his window I shouted, “If you want to go around me, go around me, but GET OFF MY ASS.”
And tromped back to my car and went home.
Check that: I AM fucking proud of that.
Anyway, this diversion is guaranteed to get you going, and I anticipate around 500 comments on:
Your Driving Pet Peeves.
*sits back to watch the fun*
TATER BARLEY BANKS is not to be trusted. He probably makes up everything he writes about himself, especially the stuff about living in West Virginia. Don’t be fooled. In truth, he lives in Pajibaland, where he speaks gibberish as , (TCFKAB), spends his time sitting on a park bench, eyeing little girls with bad intent, and is developing a 25-letter alphabet, now that his key doesn’t work. He has no blog, no Facebook page and no MySpace page, so don’t try to find him. If you’re so inclined, you can email Tater.
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