Observations in Miniature: Different Drivers II

If you see yourself amongst these people it might be time to change your driving habits.

Crotch Rocket Punk – Could you rev that motorcycle a little louder my other ear drum hasn’t blown out yet? Not wearing a helmet is a good move it just shows me you don’t have much up there to protect anyway. This is what Darwin called survival of the fittest and your kind will soon enough wipe themselves out. And no that Nautica T-shirt isn’t going to protect you when you go flying over the handle bars and skid across the interstate on your stomach. Sorry, I just ran over your nipples trying to avoid the ten car pile you caused. Hopefully they’ll be able to sew those back on if you make it. If not maybe a vulture will eat them, fly over the ocean, shit them out and in this way they will have a burial at sea. The next time you decide to go weaving in and out of cars in a traffic jam at maximum speeds just remember how easy it would be for me to open my door. And oh yeah good luck with the career at Ruby Tuesdays as a “chef.”


Sleazy Trucker – How imaginative, naked lady mud flaps. I’ve never seen those before. 1-800-How’s My Driving? How about 1-800- It Fucking Sucks. You just cut me off going 80 miles over the speed limit on an icy road. Maybe your life is worth risking to deliver a shipment of doll heads to Walmart by 5 o’clock but mine isn’t so back off. I get it you’re tired and angry. Did your meth dealer cut his product too much this time? Did that lot lizard at the last truck stop not want to stick a Maglite up your ass and call you Betty Boop? Tough luck but driving at 130 miles per hour with those neocon cocksuckers Brooks and Dunn wailing in the background like two injured seagulls won’t make up for that. The only thing it will do is cause you to hit a row of cars waiting at a stoplight and if this happens you’d better pray to the jiggling hula girl on your dashboard that I’m not in one of those cars because if I am the Maglite won’t go up your ass it will go upside your bloated head.

Packed Station Wagon Guy – Are you related to the Clampetts? Because the only thing that’s missing from the back of your station wagon is Grandma’s rocking chair. How could you possibly accumulate that much shit and stuff it in the back of one vehicle? You say you’re a hoarder? No, get out of town. Those piles of newspapers dating back to the early eighties and the Tupperware lids, rubber bands, old brassieres, dog collars, plastic shopping bags are not treasures they are GARBAGE! Drive that heap straightaway to a dump and unload. You will find you’ll get 40-50 more miles to the gallon and you might find that interbred son of yours that you thought ran away ten years ago under a stack of flattened Krimpet boxes.

Bill the Volunteer Fire Fighter – Okay, slow the fuck downs the Spicy burrito at Taco Bell is not a three alarm fire call. Turn that eight foot high rack of swirling lights off on top of your 78 Chevy Impala; no one needs that much illumination unless they’re landing aircraft at night. I know your job is thankless one so let me be the first to thank you but to also add that you're not a cop. That’s right, stop wearing that blue uniform that your grandmother sewed for you, it doesn’t give you the authority to pass me by driving over the flower bed in the middle of town. We need to find you a girlfriend before you start hiding bodies under your floorboards in your house so I suggest you get some acne medication, deodorant, shampoo and trade in your walkie talkie for a cell phone. That sixteen foot antennae on the roof of your car and the 4 x 6 foot side mirrors need to go too. Believe me you’ll be able to see fine without them. Now, ask her out but don’t take her to the all you can eat Firehouse pancake breakfast at least take her to Ruby Tuesday where Crotch Rocket Punk will prepare you burritos for two from a box.

Eating Daddy Driver – Did you just unfold a table cloth and drape it over the dashboard? And blow those fucking candles out. First of all the car is not a place to have a picnic. I know you want to make it to Dolly World and have maximum fun time at the wave pool watching buxom teenage girls bounce up and down but you’re swerving all over the fucking road and endangering me. That’s it two hands on the wheel. Put the 4 gallon Diet Pepsi down, spit the KFC drumstick out and wipe off your grease mustache. I have an idea. Instead of vacationing American style and adding more blubber to you’re already doughy physiques why not vacation in Ethiopia? There won’t be fast food and in some cases toilet paper might not be available but you might learn something other than how to balance a king sized double chocolate milk shake on your steering wheel while careening through traffic and by the time you get back your four family members combined weight won’t exceed the restrictions on most freight elevators.

Speeding Trooper – First of all lighten the fuck up. Your scowling so hard you could crack walnuts in the creases in your forehead. Does that chin strip ever go in the right place? I’ve seen it under the nose, under the lip, under the second double chin but never under the actual chin itself so after you guys figure out the saga of the chin strap you might want to work on slowing the fuck down and learning how to use turn signals. If you check your handbook I think you’ll find you’re not above the law so you might want to obey it too. I know I’m not a hot chick so you won’t let me off when I’m in the position to get a ticket but I’ll make a deal with you. If you learn how to buckle up that chin strap properly I won’t speed.