On the eve of Martin Luther King, Jr. Day, I’m all about accepting others as they are. Really, don’t we want to carry that feeling of loving our fellow man with us all the time? Isn’t it a wonderful experience when our hearts are full and we’re just moseying along through our day, taking note of other human beings and how warm and wonderful we can be to each other? (Feel free to hear the gentle sound of birds tweeting in your head as you read this.) Life is beautiful people and we can all strive to get along better each and every day.
Just the other day I was driving along on the highway, appreciating life. Sometimes when I’m cruising, I get in the groove — the tunes are jamming, the sun is shining and I feel at one with my vehicle. So I was having one of those moments of motoring perfection when I spied another car about to pull onto the I-95 from an on-ramp and I could tell it was one of those
motherfucking slightly slow drivers who was going to nose right in front of me (clowns to the left of me) and I’d have no choice but to let that asshole driver (jokers to the right) go. So I kindly let the old fuck gentleman, somewhere between the age of 83 and 93, ahead and my beautiful moment was broken because his little Subaru (the bane of my existence) was only going to break 47 miles per hour and now some other ass pony driver was attempting to see if he could get his front bumper to persuade my rear bumper to go faster. Ah, the joys of living in rural Connecticut where the grass is long and the ramps are short.
So now I was trapped like a small rodent between Grandpa and Junior on a road that was built back in 1950, with exits barely a mile apart and the fleet of elderly apparently out reminiscing through Sunday drives. In my area, the Outback is the vehicle of choice for the retirement community at large and they seem determined to keep the speed limit down by acting in force; driving as slowly as they can through a certain stretch of the freeway while bored and high teenagers play vehicular Frogger around the rest of us. When I saw the sign that the next exit was near I calmly
gave the finger signaled that I was about to depart the highway, waited for dickwad the elderly gentleman to get out of the way and stomped on it drove down the ramp where I stopped at the traffic light. Across from me I saw another asshole motorist with his left blinker on and immediately I knew what was going to happen when the light turned green. Ever since I was in that stinking pithole of an excuse for a state New Jersey (where I was semi-forced to reside for a short period of time), where I first saw this dickhead horrific maneuver, I have labeled it “The New Jersey Left” and it has taken over the East Coast like a rampant disease. The New Jersey Left is when a driver, stopped at a traffic light that does not have a separate left turn light, screeches out like a maniac to make a left turn before the traffic opposite him can go straight (not yielding/waiting as he should according to traffic laws). Often times this extremely assholish inconsiderate gambit causes the driver trying to go straight to have to slam on his brakes and/or a head-on collision is narrowly averted. Of course I, being the bitchy and aggressive mindful and considerate operator that I am, often just gesture and scream allow the fuckface other driver to go. But other times I feel like a bitch teacher who should show the other guy what’s what guide my fellow driver into realizing his fuck-up erroneous habits. This day being one of those occasions, I watch the traffic light like a hawk because I can spy from the side the changing of the colors from yellow to red and be ready to gun it prepare to take my foot off the brake. I feel like the other driver can see my determined look and I can see him (like when Steve Martin and Kevin Bacon catch each other’s eye at the beginning of Planes, Trains and Automobiles). I rev the engine (even though all our windows are closed) so he can hear what’s about to happen and just at the very second the light begins to flash to green I STOMP ON THAT MOTHERFUCKING GAS PEDAL apply pressure to the accelerator and I smugly glare at see the other driver’s face as I cruise through the intersection, knowing that I pissed him right the fuck off gave him pause and allowed him to consider the safety of what he was about to do.
I continue on straight via Route 1, heading for that bastion of gold and silver discount coins and parking lot to all the Subarus: The Big Y. Suddenly a bullet-like movement to the right is caught by my lightening quick peripheral vision, my heart starts pounding and the next
cuss word thought makes its way to my lips after being all riled up by that New Jersey Left. It’s another one of those cunts soccer moms about to exit a side road by barreling her Dodge Dingleberry or Ford Exersaucer (aka the world’s largest vehicular manslaughter type weapon) toward the main road with no sign of stopping before she enters traffic. Me being the paranoid freak cautious driver that I am, I note that she is distracted by her motherfucking phone, despite the law prohibiting its use while operating a motor vehicle. Bitch Soccer mom never even looks to see me yelling and waving my arms if anyone is coming, she just pulls out that tank and I spend the rest of the .26 miles to the grocery store wishing I had some kind of police camera mounted on my car so I could turn in that dumbass dangerous woman.
I finally arrive at the supermarket parking lot in one piece where I
think about hitting for points dodge people who either dart quickly out in front of me or linger at the crosswalks, unsure whether I am one of the good guys or bad. I get my shopping done, careful to adhere to the Eight Simple Rules and make my way back to the car where I find that yet another stupid asshole Subaru Outback has taken up residence approximately two and one half inches from my Volkswagen. I think about slamming my door as hard as I can into the side of the other car leaving a polite note but decide it’s too much trouble instead to breathe deeply and let it go. I squeeze into the passenger seat and maneuver myself over the stick shift into the driver’s spot and wonder if I can regain my vehicular Zen. As I begin to back slowly out of my slot, another car races to get around me instead of waiting because that driver is a complete and utter fuck is most likely on his way to church and doesn’t want to be late. Declining to let bad feelings get the best of me I set back out onto the main road to head for home. At the last traffic light I wait to make a right turn behind yet another Subaru whose driver, when the light turns, decides he is headed in the wrong direction and swerves over into the left turn lane in front of another car, nearly causing an accident. While I marvel at the narrow escape, the thirty-second long light has turned back to red and I edge out a little bit, since Connecticut allows right turns on red. I take a look and see a vehicle approaching the intersection but the car has its right turn indicator flashing so I think about making my turn. But being the distrusting person clever girl that I am I wait that extra second and sure enough, yet another Godtopus-damned, motherfrakking, self-absorbed, asshole inattentive driver has stupidly inadvertently left on his signal though he means to go straight. (I suppose I should thank him for at some point having used the turn indicator that seems to be so difficult for most people to operate.) Finally, the way seems clear and I make my right turn onto the second to the last road home. I turn up the tunes and let the heated seat relax the bundle of nerves that seem to have amassed themselves in my lower back and I breathe a slight gulp of relief. I note up ahead of me that another vehicle is about to turn from a small side road in front of me, even though that will cause me to have to brake hard. This is a common dickhead move on this particular stretch of road and I roll my eyes as my foot hits the brake and my hand only twitches slightly as I think about making one more vulgar gesture the music I hear. But I know I’m almost home so I’m determined not to spontaneously combust even as this fuckwad last of the aging Outback tribe who just had to get out in front of me has slowed down to a comfortable 15 mph. And I spend the last two miles traveling behind the crotchety, drooling, blue-haired, twat kindly, old lady, whispering profanities calming phrases to myself so I don’t hurt my throat any further. After what seems like an eternity, I see the road sign marking my road and after that bitch gets out of the way, I jam my foot down on the accelerator, making some noise so she’ll hear how pissed I am gently ease into the turn and make my way toward home. As a last fuck you sign of life’s infinite beauty, I am forced apply the brake one more time to avoid hitting the family of deer that decides this would be the best time to make a crossing. Roadkill! Gorgeous!
I step out of my vehicle, pleased with the kindness I feel toward others and I am reminded of what my old friend, Fred Rogers used to sing:
“So, let’s make the most of this beautiful day
Since we’re together we might as well say
Would you be mine, could you be mine?
Won’t you be my neighbor?”