GET THE FUCK OUT OF MY WAY

i need to go home

I lived on the East Coast for a while, and not the southern, hayseed chewing, putting along at whatever casual speed the day brings East Coast. Oh no, I lived on the not spilling my coffee is more important than your life East Coast. Where, if you're in the left lane you better be moving down the road rapidly. A place where if you're doing 25 miles over the speed limit you're not going fast enough.

As you may have guessed, I am no longer there. I'm now in the part of the country that an appropriate range of speed across four lanes of traffic is about seven miles an hour. So if the far right lane traffic is doing 59 mph, then in the left lane it's 65 mph.

Terrific

I'll give you an example from a recent trip after work.

I'm in the right lane, but there's some dude who doesn't realize he's on the highway and keeps braking for no reason whatsoever.

Douche.

So, I swing to the next lane. A little faster, but not too much. Hey mini van, step on the gas! Beat your kids when you get home. Can I ask this of the people in the middle lane? If you're going to only go a mile or two faster than the right lane, then just stay in the right lane and do something else besides endlessly annoying me.

Still, not a major crisis because there is still the left lane. The lane of hope. The third lane sure to be void of all mouth breathers. No Farmer Johns, Student Drivers, or Amish. Only rocket equipped cars where people test the strength of their automobiles while attempting to set new land speed records. The lane of lanes. The fast lane. The Left Lane. My only chance left at sane drive home.

NO! WRONG! ERROR! VIOLATION ASSHOLE! YOU'RE GOING NOWHERE!

It's Only filled with more slow assholes who couldn't give two shits about how much frustration they're causing me!

So I let them know. I signal with my headlights in morse code

Y O U - A R E - S L O W - G E T - T H E - F U C K - O U T - O F - M Y - W A Y.

Nothing. Apparently no one knows morse code anymore. I doubt they'll understand semaphore flags, so I start laying on the horn. Nothing again! What the shit is this?! Move out the lane!

I have no choice remaining - I start tapping their rear bumper (remember, rubbing is part of racing).

Finally! Victory! They move. It's a skidding glide into the guard rail so I'll give them no style points, but at least they're out of my way.

As I'm finally able to put the pedal down a fantasy plays out in my head.

I want to slam on the brakes and go back to the car sitting next to the guardrail, and Grand Theft Auto style, beat the living shit out of the driver. Then hit R2 a few times to bring up the mini gun and lay waste to all the other slow assholes putting along on the highway. Out of ammo I cycle to the flame thrower to take out whoever and whatever is still moving.

Take that rubes!

As cops start appearing like agents in the Matrix I let loose a few guided missiles. Choppers fall like rocks, but Johnny Law keeps coming. Uh oh - I'm out of rockets, so its over to the dual submachine guns. Which I use to blow away every motherfucker that dare moves in front of me! As I've passed the firefighter mission, I walk through the burning wreckage, immune to the flames, and continue shooting away just like John Wayne, Roland the Gunslinger, or Clint Eastwood.

But eventually I'm taken down trying to get on a motorcycle to make my escape, so I hit reset and go to the kitchen for a drink.