Driving. Yes, driving. To all you multi-tasking mongrels—there are no cup holders, cell phone holders, or ashtrays in German cars for a reason. Driving is a full time job! You fudge packers can’t walk and jerk off at the same time, and you expect us to believe you can talk on the phone, text, smoke, drink, and check your atrocious Alice Cooper makeup in the mirror at the same time? Douche bags! Try driving! You get to go places and arrive intact!
See that stick to the left…right behind the steering wheel? If you push that stick down before turning left, the rest of us road-ragers-waiting-to-happen (RRWTH) will know what the fuck it is you’re about to do! Think of it! We won’t have to rely on E.S.P., remote viewing, or Travel Ouji to know what the hell you’re up to. Blood and makeup don’t mix, unless you are Alice Cooper. Every time I see someone crossing three lanes in high speed traffic to exit without using a directional (aka, the Arizona Exit), I want to cut’em off, drop their pants, duct tape them bent over to their hood, and stick the blinker stick up their ass, in the middle of the middle lane. Ah, but to dream…
Texting? Are you kidding? Anyone caught texting while driving should be bike-ridden forever. But they should be allowed (under certain circumstances) to text friends from their jail cell. Oh yeah, and they should be prevented from having children. The recent train wreck in Caaleefawniya was caused by a short-bus special, texting at the helm. When my mother didn’t like how I was driving, she would stand up (yes, she was that short) and smack me in the back of the head. We should all test our drivers-to-be with similarly violent teachers in the back seat. We could start off the course by asking them to text a friend as we pull into traffic…then SMACK. Rinse, lather, repeat.
Alternatively, in order to catch these wanna-be multi-taskers run amuck (WBMRA), we could all pack paintball guns. We could fire at those who fail to use that helpful stick behind the steering wheel. After firing, simply call the local P.D. and have them watch for the black Nissan with the yellow splotched rear fender.
In addition to how people drive (or how they attempt to drive while texting missives about their lives to their friends), I have a few words on what people drive. If you own a four-door four-wheel-drive pickup with, say, a twelve inch lift, and do not need it to get to an inaccessible workplace, well, you are a dork. Your truck stopped being a truck the moment your modifications prevented anything from ever being placed into its bed—because it’s SIX fucking FEET off the ground! And, if you did manage, you’d have to drive only in straight lines for fear of top-heavy overturn (THO). Ah, but you have impressed your like-minded idiot friends, haven’t you? A real man you are now! It makes it all worth the buckboard ride, the catastrophic handling, and wonderful gas mileage. Yes, and those 36” wheels providing increased unsprung weight won’t help. At $4.00 plus a gallon, you must feel just like the dipstick that you’ve become.
Maybe you’ve contemplated giving your wife the old Silverado for daily use (not a sexual metaphor) and driving her rolling garbage-receptacle Hyundai to work for the fuel efficiency. One word…DON’T! Case in point: “Oh honey, there is some red light thingy on the dash. Been on for about a week. Something about oil or something. Will you fix it?” Remember where we bought the car? Well, next time a little light flashes or noise sounds…TAKE IT THERE! It’s just like when you tell me that the “Laundry faerie” doesn’t clean our clothes; well, the fucking “Car Faerie” doesn’t keep us trucking either. Oh yeah, and there is a reason your husbands want to do the driving. Your driving scares the living shit out of us. I have many shorts that couldn’t stand the strain. And that, coming from men who regularly suspend all common sense on the road, is saying a lot.
If you are female and want to drink coffee in your car, you are hereby forbidden to use anything except sippy cups. You all are way too fucking slovenly for an adult cup. Just check your seats, cup holder and front carpets. See? Listen, for about 10 bucks, you can have the fucking car cleaned in and out. Once a month, like your period. Next time you wake up and look at that methane factory sleeping next to you and think of only sharp knives, say to yourself “It must be time to go to the car wash.”
At the opposite end of the silly car spectrum are those little toy cars. To all those asshole drivers of little mini-me rice burners everywhere: Graduate to a “real vehicle”. Those toys with fartcan exhaust are cute for about a minute. If you try bringing me and my Ram (short bed, regular cab, two wheel drive, unlifted, no carpet, no fucking Hemi, real usable truck) to a screeching halt, I will roll over you like a speed bump. (Ram fartcan joke omitted by the FCC). At the very least, your decapitated gourd will anoint my hood like the Flying Lady on a Rolls-Royce radiator.
Why spend mucho dollars squeezing 300 horsepower out of a 4 cylinder when (now hit yourself in the forehead) you coulda had a V8! Jerks. When you start pushing 250 + hp out of a 2 liter, your gas mileage plummets to Hummerville. You may like the old Honda now, but try sliding your fat 40+ year old ass into that Civic.
The silly car gamut doesn’t run just from the giant tires to the matchbox toy cars. You know what I love; it’s those rolling mid-life crises with little hair flipping around those topless sports cars…with their Donald Trump lacquered comb-over standing straight up as a rooster-hawk. Dorks.
One day in ’96, my wife and I spotted a two year old Caddy Sedan DeVille at a local stealership. We took it for test drive. When we returned, I asked her, “Well, what do you think?” Her answer was “It’s the fattest-ass, most ostentatious automobile I’ve ever encountered,” and I said “Ok, but can I have it?” I drove that big bastard 12 years and 184 thousand miles. Had N.Y. plates that read “CRUZSHIP”. Passed trucks stuck in the snow, beat almost everything at the light. Near 300 horse, massive torque, and front wheel drive. Once, when picking out a Christmas tree, I noticed everyone else’s jumbo SUVs. Some were trying to stuff the trees inside without tearing the leather. Others planned tying it to the roof…without scratching the paint. Lots of heated discussions ensued between cursing husbands, bitching wives, and crying children. I laughed aloud and as they all turned I pushed the remote button for the trunk. As I gazed into the standard issue “six-body trunk” (the Meadowland special), I tossed the seven-foot Frazier Fir inside diagonally and closed the lid. I grinned ear to ear. All this, a ride like a magic carpet, and 25 mpg! Mid 90’s Caddies—the best kept secret in motoring. Uh oh, what the fff… I sure hope that was a speed bump.