Nothing brings out my curmudgeonly nature like highway driving. If I’m not busy gripping the wheel in terror, imagining my death at the hands of one of the Merritt Parkway’s infamous leaping deer, I am critiquing my fellow drivers using a colorful selection of expletives.
I learned to drive late, at 25, and am kind of Tracy Flick-ish when it comes to rules of conduct, so I treat the drivers' manual like the Bible, inferring my own commandments.
Thou shalt not drive slower than 10 miles over the speed limit in the fast lane, asshole.
Though shalt not assume that if your lane ends I will let you in at the last minute, dickwad.
Though shalt not go 80 on the shoulder to bypass traffic unless you then immediately spontaneously combust, doucheface.
Yesterday I was particularly incensed by an asshole who felt his blinker was just a piece of optional steering wheel flair.
Me: Look! That asshole just changed lanes without using his signal!
Jeff: Quick! Make a citizen’s arrest.
Me: Shut up. Aaaaagh, he did it again! That really burns my ass.
Jeff: [Doubled over in laughter.]
Me: What? That's an expression. It's like the opposite of "that really pumps my 'nads."
Jeff: Woah, he's using his blinker. It's like he can feel your hatred.
Me: It's my Care Bear Stare.
Jeff: And which bear would you be?
Me: Judgy Bear.