Grandma Goes Driving

Here’s a shocker, a study of 2009 insurance claims reveals that men have more accidents than women in the summertime due to scantily clad women distracting them while driving. Who knew? Additionally, the report said that men are more prone to road rage in hot weather. I am so glad that I found this report because I had no idea that very angry guys sitting into enormous pick-up trucks in the middle of bumper-to-bumper traffic might be prone to expressing themselves with rage.

Like yesterday. One must be cautious when nearing a very big, black, loud pick-up truck that proudly displays the very PC bumper sticker on it’s cab window: I eat Dodges and s**t Chevys. Looking as if he has just escaped from a mental institution for the criminally insane, this fine white American seems to enjoy riding on other peoples bumpers – closely. It can be problematic when you look in your rear-view mirror and all that you see is a grill. A gleaming network of shiny chrome that is inches from having intercourse with your vehicle, whether you like it in the rear or not.

Of course, this is a nationwide problem and not limited to the local highways that each of us drive. It usually involves the American hand sign for “go forth and multiply”, accented with strong verbal and facial visuals that indicate things are not going well in this specific situation.

The escalator factor is dependent upon whom the “cowboy” deems unfit to share the highways.  In some cases it is absolutely shocking and repulsive. Case in point: literally, a little old lady is stuck in the passing lane (how she got there is a mystery to all involved) and the individual next to her is oblivious to her plight. In tandem, the two have created an unintentional convoy at 50 mph. on a 65-mph speed limit, four-lane highway that normally carries the traffic flow at 75-80 mph during business hours. Behind them is a surging wall of testosterone that wants to kill somebody, no one in particular, but the two up front will do just fine. Directly behind her IN her rear-view mirror is Bubba is his pick-up truck.

Somehow, someway, the right lane driver notices the terrified elderly women keeping pace with him to his left. Probably fearing for both his and her life, he slows down to let her pull over (this of course enrages the people behind him even more), which she does at 50 mph; slowly; cautiously; and with determined safety – she really had no choice, it’s the way she drives. My guess is that she aged from 70 to 80 years old while stuck in the passing lane from terror alone.

Nevertheless, the passing lane finally opened for Daytona and the green flag. So, the pickup truck in the Pole Position inched up next to Granny, windows down – and let her know his thoughts about his life at that moment and her life in general, ancestors, and all living relatives. It is doubtful that she heard anything. She was pretty focused on driving straight ahead – hands at ten and two with a death-grip. Plus, if she had the ability to turn her head sideways to her left, the only thing that she’d have seen was the black metal from his door right behind rolling tires half the size of her entire car.

Once he had verbally puked, he hit the gas. It wasn’t quite a rocket sled, but since NO ONE was in front of him by several miles, it was open road running. The pace had been set and the race had begun. Pent up anger and frustration was now free to pass. Of course, the jockeying for position back and forth in the both passing and primary driving lanes was entirely dependent upon a keen combination of skill, speed, opportunity and every-man-for-himself escapism. The two main contributors to this mayhem maintained their positions, one and two behind each other, never wavering from their appointed 50 mph as all Hell broke loose behind them and then went screaming by them. Just another day on American highways.

Can’t say what ever happened to any of the participants. No one was hurt. No suits filed. No additional misadventures that created an accident further down the road. Still, it is rather abhorrent that a grown man, driving a vehicle that suggests to those who took Psychology 101 that his penis is the size of a shriveled one-inch green bean, feels it manly and just to berate a little old lady who clearly seems to be in over her head and should not be driving in the first place. It’s just wrong. And he can rant and rave and tell all of his “Chevy sh**ting” buddies how much he accomplished earlier in the day, but neanderthal is neanderthal. I am not at all concerned that you, my dear reader, might be this person. If for no other reason – you can read.

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Animated Balls: Election 2012

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