Frustrating Freaking Drivers

If there isn't anything more aggravating in this world, it is oblivious drivers. And what's sad is that unlike breeding, someone actually gave them a license. I'm usually a pretty cool and collected person EXCEPT when it comes to travel. Its because I can't keep my finger in its holster that I've never put my church's sticker on my car.

You've been there. You're already five minutes late and you are stuck behind a man in a pickup going ten under the speed limit in the exit lane for the ramp to the freeway. Regardless that you are 0.6 inches from his bumper, he's just bouncing along with absolutely no one in front of him until you reach the next solar system. So you decide to be patient- he could be some one's grandpa. That is until his blinker flips on and he begins to exit the exit ramp because despite the nine signs pointing to the highway, the exit only sign, and the directions painted for sixty yards on the asphalt, he's still not sure he's on planet earth. That finger just itches, don't it?

Then you have the rambling housewife. She's my favorite because she's always driving a luxury SUV that will haul the German army yet she's got one lone kid in the backseat semi-watching Dora on the headrest. And I have a theory about all cars in general: the more expensive the car, the slower it goes, despite it's performance technology. But anyway...you can spot the rambling housewife from a mile away. That's because you will need a mile to get your car to decelerate enough to keep from hitting her. So you're on a rare break from work where you have to run a quick errand and you're traveling down the highway making good time, when you must slow down from 70 to 35, kinda like coming out of warp speed in Star Wars. The daycare on wheels that you can't see around is cruising at the speed of smell. The left lane is hustlin' like pimp in the Bronx and everyone behind you is swerving into the ocean current of the left lane leaving you wedged behind Mrs. Oblivious 2007. As you finally begin to cruise past, you glare into the daycare to get a glimpse of the problem. There she is: sporting her Ed Hardy ball cap, her hot-pink, Juicy Couture velour jumpsuit, and big, fake french-tipped fingernails crawling down the road TALKING ON THE PHONE. You can't shoot death rays from your eyes because you have no eyes. They have erupted into flames blazing out of your skull. You contemplate the finger, but there's a five year old in the backseat. Besides, house mom wouldn't see it. She's on her bedazzled phone.

It's one thing if you were texting and ignorant to what's going on around you because, duh, you're looking down. But when you're using the phone? You obviously don't need your eyes to talk, but for some people, even though their eyes are facing the road, you know they're not seeing a dang thing. Lately, I have found much delight in honking at texters because it scares the crap out of them. But my ultimate favorite is the person reading a book. Yes, reading and driving. I want to know who the author is and the title of the book that's worth crashing your two-ton death machine at 70 miles per hour. I've seen it.

Last but definitely not least, is the most aggravating offender of all: being stuck in the passenger seat. Have you noticed how awful it can be to ride with others? Some ride the brake or pulsate the accelerator so you feel like you're on a ship at sea. Or they refuse to take directions from anyone else in the car until you're hopelessly stuck downtown. And to the fear of even some creatures in hell, they can drive faster than you while pulling out their phones to check their scrabble game. Advice fore myself: It's just best to drive yourself, Panama.