I’ve decided to stop bitchin’ about the insanity run.

So what if I’m driving 400 miles a day on a highway system that was designed by M.C. Escher?

Exits to the left of me, exits to the right, here I am, stuck in the middle lane, screwed.

Granny the brake tapper is in the slow lane, and I hate being behind her, never knowing if there is an actual REASON to be slowing down or if she was just frightened by a leaf blowing across the street. Grr, I hate brake tappers…stop or go, bitch.

Yeah, I called granny a bee-otch. She can learn to drive without riding the brake or get off the freakin’ freeway.

Roddy the Redneck with his souped-up monster truck which is 40 feet tall and goes 110 miles an hour is in the fast lane, and I don’t blame him. If you’re not willing to significantly break the speed limit, stay out of the fast lane. Plus it’s twenty below zero and ain’t no donut-eater gonna chase you and have to get out of their nice, warm cruiser, unless you pass them at the speed of sound. On fire. And having sex in the backseat. (Sex in the backseat will draw a cop out like a moth to a flame.)

I’m cruising along safely in the middle, at nine miles an hour above the speed limit. (Karen and I believe we won’t get stopped unless we exceed by ten - LOL)

I love the middle lane. Except when I get trapped between semi-trucks. Then it’s like that old Saturday Night Live skit, “A Night at the Roxbury”with disco beat, “What is Love?” blaring in the background, and I am the unsuspecting soul stuck between the two cocaine-addled, nose scratching, shiny-suited dancers who sumo-bump you back and forth between them.

Kansas City proudly boasts the most miles of roadway per capita. We have a freeway that goes to each person’s house. And they’re all eight lanes wide, but only one is open due to construction.

Sarah Winchester is in charge of maintenance, and believes it must never stop.

So during yesterday’s drive, I went five miles without ever getting out of first gear. My left ankle is the size of a tree trunk from riding the clutch. Why are people so stupid? There are flashing signs set up every five feet, warning of closed lanes ahead, yet most of the idiots don’t bother to try to get over until they are on top of the orange barrels. Then suddenly it’s, “Oh crap! There is no more road in front of me! I must muscle in on someone who is in the one open lane!”

Screw that. You can sit there until your teeth fall out. I was smart enough to get over three miles back.

But of course there’s always some kindly soul who lets them in. Then we all pay. Traffic in our one open lane slows, then stops. When we do move, we creep along only inches at a time. I stare straight ahead, so the morons can’t try to motion to me to let them in. Don’t wave your hand at me, fool. Learn to read.

And PLEASE, don’t get on the freeway in your $40,000 pickup truck with a butt-ugly French Provincial armoire in the back. Yeah, I followed you yesterday…all the way from the estate sale where you blocked the road so I couldn’t get by, while you loaded the damned thing into the back end of the truck. Then you tied it on with Christmas ribbon and put your SEVEN-YEAR-OLD back there to steady it, and pulled out in front of me. THEN you got on the interstate highway and went 14 miles an hour, lest you damage your treasure (not the child, but that hideous piece of furniture).

Yes, I am the crazy blonde who flipped you the bird when I finally got around you. I hope the damned thing crushed you when you unloaded it, and your sweet child inherits a ton of insurance money, if for nothing else than to pay for therapy to understand why their father could afford a fancy-ass truck and expensive furniture, but wouldn’t hire someone to move it, preferring to endanger the life and limb of their child and other drivers.

Oops. I was going to embrace the insanity, wasn’t I?

{{hugs}}

Categories: Friends, Humor, cars