Dear Death Wish Drivers,
Let me begin this letter with my sincerest thanks for proving to me that no matter how absolutely stupid I feel, I will never be as brain-cell-challenged as you motherfuckers.
Nothing fills my heart with more undiluted glee than traveling safely at 70 mph and you annihilate my front bumper by careening into my lane going 50, especially if you had absolutely no reason for needing into my lane. Hearing my brakes scream in abject terror as I desperately try to cling to my own life and bring my Jeep off the precipice of Hell is just sheer magic. I really hope that sweet move gets you to Starbucks that extra bit faster. Enjoy your macchiato–I will certainly enjoy this stroke you gave me.
I want to be very clear with you when I say: I HAVE HAD ENOUGH OF YOUR SHIT. Seeing as up until now you’ve managed not to kill yourself driving, the risk/reward scenario we experience in life has worn itself quite thin on you. You probably think there is no punishment for driving like a handless, severely depressed lemur covered in baby oil.
That ends now.
If You: Honk while we’re in standstill traffic and have been for some time.
Then I Will: Arrange for all of your fortune cookies to only tell you what a huge disappointment you are to your family, friends, and handless lemurs everywhere.
If You: Jump in front of everyone to be 5 cars ahead in horrible traffic by ducking into the HOV lane, even though you are a single driver and a huge dick.
Then I Will: Hire a private detective to find out what your phone number and address is. Then, every Sunday for a year I will call you at a random time from a payphone, and all I will say is, “Philly Cheese Steak,” and I will mail you a postcard every Tuesday with a photo of Mike Tyson’s butthole on the front of it.
If You: Refuse to let me into your lane, though I’ve had my blinker on for 17 miles.
Then I Will: Eat a gallon of poppy seeds, then go to your job in the middle of the night, upend your boss’ desk and pee over all of their stuff. I’ll photocopy 1,120 pictures of my right boob on your company letterhead and mail them all to your most important clients with your business cards and dirty needles inside. Then I’ll leave a letter from the cleaning crew with the secretary that states they saw you do it, and you were high on opiates at the same time.
If You: See me going to pass you in the center lane because you’re going under the speed limit in the left lane, and then speed up so that I can never ever pass you ever because fuck me, right?
Then I Will: Find your children in the night while wearing a Michele Bachmann mask and tell them stories about how you don’t love them anymore because the cocaine and anabolic steroids are really taking over your life. Also that mommy’s sleeping with the Tooth Fairy in a double-whammy bi-sexual/otherworldly creature exploration phase (and usually on your child’s bed), and then I will give them 14 Redbulls each and a pinata full of knives.
I think we can both agree that neither of us want to go through any one of these scenarios (I might want a pinata full of knives though. Honestly, that sounds pretty rad.) There’s an easy way to prevent all of these things from happening: Don’t be the largest asshole who ever assed a hole.
Just. Fucking. Drive.
Noa D. Gavin
I’m beginning to think I’m crazy seeing all of this ridiculous shit in traffic. What’s the worst traffic rage-starter you’ve ever seen (or done)?
—Favorite Comment from The Last Post: From Britt: “I’m a big fan of man titties. They exude the warmth of a mother and the complexity of a father.* Fuck all y’all. Jack Nicholson is the fuckin’ cat’s meow. *My therapist says I need to work on my understanding of parenthood.”