Road Rage

Originally published June 2005

It’s true, I wake up with road rage. But it’s not my fault. It’s because you people are driving me berserk. Driving should not pose as much of a problem as it seems to for some of you. So here are the rules of the road, as I see them. And pay attention, I’m only going to say this once.

If I see one more woman weaving around the road because she’s trying to apply mascara at 65 mph, they’re going to have to convene a grand jury. That’s because I am going to hunt her down, yank her out of her SUV and beat some common sense into her. Then I will take said mascara and draw a little cartoon mustache on her. I think that should get my point across nicely.

If you’re behind me, slow down. If you’re in front of me, speed up.

Books on tape were created for a reason. The reason is that driving and reading should be mutually exclusive activities. And if you think you can pull off those two endeavors simultaneously then you are an unqualified jackass and should not even be allowed to operate a toaster.

If you are in the left lane and realize that you are about to pass the right turn you need to make DO NOT stop in the middle of traffic and try to maneuver over to your right, unless you want to find out just how “dent resistant” your Saturn is. A u-turn is not a sign of weakness.

I happen to know where I’m going and would like to get there before the seasons change. So being behind you as you play Brake Light Bingo in the Which Is My Right Turn? lightning round only makes the voices in my head louder and more convincing. Get better directions or a better map. But, for the love of God, get with the program.

And, while we’re on the subject, what is with the random, intermittent braking? Some of you are like evil magicians, and I find myself both infuriated with and in awe of your powers. How you manage to accelerate with your brake lights on—uphill, no less—is almost inspiring. How many feet are you driving with? Personally, I prefer one for the gas and the brake, and one for the clutch. If you don’t have a stick shift, then give your left foot the day off.

Do not tailgate me in heavy traffic. If there is someone in front of me and someone beside me where is it, exactly, you would like me to go? I’m driving a car that’s the size of a hockey puck and weighs about as much. I’m not driving Bigfoot, nor am I driving Chitty Chitty Bang Bang—driving over or flying out of traffic isn’t an option. So, to quote the Yosemite Sam mud flaps I was so  fond of as a kid, BACK OFF.

That arm on the side of your steering column? Yeah, that’s your blinker. It alerts other drivers to your vehicular intentions. You may know where you’re going, but I don’t. And I don’t have the energy, time, patience or ability to read your mind.

And should you choose to start using your blinker, please, oh please, turn that damn thing off when you’re finished changing lanes. There is nothing more aggravating than watching someone go around the world to the left.

Would it kill you to wave a little thanks when I let you into traffic? I didn’t think so.

When the light turns green, go. I don’t care if you don’t like that shade, it’s the only green you’re getting.

I know you love your music, I love my music too. But at a red light I shouldn’t look like I’m having a grand mal seizure because of the sternum-rattling kicker box you wedged into the back of your fully tricked-out Oldsmobuick. And, no, you can’t have my “digits,” I don’t care how badly you want to “get with” me. But I’m flattered, really.

Here’s a final piece of advice: public transportation is there for a reason—to keep you out of my way. But to the few of you who went to the same driving school I did (the Me First and To Hell With You school of driving), I recognize you from the single-digit salutes we’ve exchanged. I consider you worthy adversaries and respectfully request that you eat my dust. See you on the blacktop.