Since moving to Idaho, I’ve noticed a surplus of people who, shall we say, are too fucking stupid to realize that the left lane is for passing, as opposed to their favorite pasttime, driving five miles per hour under the limit and raising my blood pressure. In every state I’ve lived in, here’s been the result of my getting close to someone’s bumper (I don’t think too close for comfort, by the by): they merge right. AHAHAHAHAHA! IT’S FUCKING EASY! My riding your ass IS the signal to get out of the way. In Idaho, the general reaction is to slow down; or put on a left blinker, indicating a merge into a non-existent, extra left lane, and THEN slow down.
The awesome defense, which never, ever gets old, is: well, a lot of these guys can remember when all of this strip malls were green pastures; when you could hunt pheasant where that Home Depot now is; where you knew a person’s name and could leave your front door wide open for the entire summer without someone doing anything more offensive than, say, offering to shut said door.
I believe it was Bob Dylan who said: “Time’s changed, you dumb son of a bitch; get a newspaper and a helmet!” I might be paraphrasing.
Now, when I ride their ass, it’s for a noble cause: get out of the way, you absolute idiot. However, what I am now referring to is a different kind of ass riding (no, we still aren’t talking public restrooms in the dark of night), one that serves no purpose: doing it in residential zones. Nothing gets my goat more than some ignorant asshole riding me while I’M IN MY OWN NEIGHBORHOOD! Normally, residential zones average 25 mph (at least in my limited experience). Our neighborhood is 20 mph, so when I’m going five over the limit at 25 mph and my OWN GODDMAN NEIGHBORS continue to ride my ass, they should be grateful. I’m giving you a speed advantage, as opposed to going the limit, which I would be fully within my rights to do. No, sir, I have actually given you a 5 mph boost. How about thanks?
Last night, while my wife was driving, with my own darling son in the back seat, some gigantic, mustachioed honkey in a gigantic, red, honkey-ass monster truck (to be fair, they were hauling grass clippings, which you need a one-ton truck for, I’m fairly certain) rode our ass for two blocks. My wife brake-checked him, which is always a gamble. He politely backed off. Then, as he passed us (while we turned right), he AND his adolescent (read: ignorant as fuck) son made sure to turn and flip us off, as if we didn’t have rear-view mirrors. Yay.
Well, rather than go to his house (located one block away from mine… not exactly incognito, not exactly well thought out) and probably wind up in jail, I decided to write a blog. Are you seeing a trend here? It’s like my own personal space to air grievances in a way in which the offender will never find out. One day, though, I hope and pray that the honkey in said gargantuan truck-a-saurus dies either slowly of gonorrhea, or in a fiery auto-wreck. Either way, if there is a god(s), the death will be slow.
What’s the moral of the story? I don’t know. I’m concerned that the relative anonymity provided to millions through the internet (you know, so you can tell people they suck based on their musical preference, or call strangers “nigger” because they beat you at an online game) is bleeding into the real world. While these gentlemen don’t particularly seem like the online gaming type, they sure did act like we wouldn’t see their very blatant gesture. What’s worse in my mind is the thought that they didn’t care what their neighbors, people they spend their whole lives surrounded by, might be offended at a totally rude gesture. And what was it over? Driving an extra 200 feet going 5 mph faster. They would have hit that plate of mac n’ cheese thirty seconds earlier, saving them all the troubles in the world…