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Friday, April 15, 2005
Mean Spirited Urine
I'm an asshole driver. I freely admit this. I routinely drive ten or fifteen over the limit, particularly near the airport. The only police there are customs agents. They won't bother me. They're looking for illegal immigrants and kidney smugglers.
I'm the guy that swerves in and out of lanes with mere inches to spare because you have the temerity to drive one under the limit. I'm the guy that speeds up to catch the tail end of a yellow light. I have no patience. I don't like it when people drive casually. To me it's urgent and serious. Especially in the morning. If you're out at five a.m. and you're driving under the speed limit, you're drunk and you should've been home hours ago. The rest of us are going somewhere out of necessity and we want to arrive ten minutes ago. I use unfair stereotypes to help me drive efficiently. I keep mental file folders, and I've been working up a new one over the past week. This new group I'll get to last. First off, the regulars. Why? I like to gauge the lackadasical before I overtake them. There are a few select groups of people that drive at five, and these are the prevalent stereotypes. I always look for eighties model Ford compacts with more rust than paint and eleven heads bobbing inside. Mexican immigrants live together and drive together. Very slowly. Minivans with Baby On Board signs are also slowpokes. This mother is more interested in wiping the graham cracker crumbs off little Timmy's shirt than watching the road in front of her. Fast forward ten years and she's got an honor student bumper sticker and a cellphone, but the driving remains unchanged. For somebody that professes to live in a constant hectic rush she drives like a retarded turtle. Where is she going this early? The white workvan is an unknown. These bluecollar roughnecks drive with padlocked vans full of giant wrenches, pipe threaders, spraypaint, boiler plating, blowtorches, and who knows what else. Depending on whether they secure these items to the side of the van, they can drive anywhere from twenty under to thirty over. The one constant is that these men always wear gloves and never set down their coffee. I approach them with caution. Now there's a new type. The Catholic praying mantis. These people are so stricken with grief over the pope's death they now fly the national flag of Poland from their driver side window. Not only do they deprive themselves of fresh air, but they drive like elderly people on motorscooters at the zoo. If we had pandas and lemurs on the roadside these papists would gridlock the entirety of Chicago.    Is that really necessary? If you care that the figurehead of your professed God is dead, why don't you fly the yellow papal emblem? No, you don't care. It doesn't matter that God's Spock has died, what matters is he was Polish. That's why you all chose the red Polish standard instead. This is an excuse to declare your love for the homeland you fled so eagerly, the land of beets and rocky fields. That's okay with me, but please stop driving like infants on heroin. I know you're suffering from spiritual confusion. Now that the pope is dead, can your family switch back to Judaism or maybe go Protestant? The peer pressure is off, right? Surely the pope will be from Slovakia or someplace, not Poland. To this I say: Keep the quandry at home, idol worshipper. Keep it off my road. Oh, and by the way, fuck the pope. I was on time this morning. 7:30 AM - Bottle Rocket Fire Alarm 
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