It has been said that drivers in St. Cloud, Minnesota are the worst in the world. Spending a good deal of my time driving to and from work in this town, I know this fact to be true. I would venture to say, however, that ALL drivers in Minnesota are the worst- while I have not had the pleasure of driving across other states now and then, it is safe to say that from what I’ve seen of Minnesota drivers, if the rest of the country drove as such, we would have reverted back to horses as our main source of transportation long ago.
Why am I mentioning the flaws of the Minnesota Licensed, you ask? Let me tell you.
I have mentioned in the past that I play piano for church every Sunday. (You may laugh now at the thought of the Bookwhore in church, everyone does.) Because I have continued to move further and further away from the church, I now live a good hour’s drive away. This drive allows me to reflect on my week, and to crank up Rob Zombie’s Pussy Liquor and Zakk Wilde’s Counterfeit God and jam out while I drive.
Yesterday, I was going about my own business, cruising at an unapproved 70 mph when I came up behind a polk of a driver. The main road I take to church is a source of constant chagrin to me, as it is infested daily with drivers who insist on going under the speed limit, and it is a two-lane highway with many hills not acceptable for passing. This causes me to resort to the only choice that remains- tailgating the slow-polks to irritate them enough that they go faster.
Said polk was just jaunting along at a less-than-desirable 45 mph when I came up behind him. Since I was jamming out at the time to Sick Puppies’ Riptide, I perhaps didn’t quite notice that I was committing my habitual tailgating crime. I realized it when the man began to turn, and I passed him on the right, and he swerved as if to hit me, then proceeded to flick me the bird. I just waved as I cruised past him in my yellow truck, but inside, I was steaming.
On the remaining drive to church, I daydreamed about what my inner homicidal maniac wanted to do to that rude man:
I would have made a quick U-turn and followed that asshole down the rode of his choice, tailgating and laying on the horn until he decided to stop along some desolate highway. Then I would have stopped, thrown my lovely truck into park and jumped down from the excessively-tall cab, landing rightly on my bronze sparkly wedges I was sporting. I then would have proceeded to pound on the man’s hood like Tarzan before dragging his terrified ass outta his driver’s seat and shout, “WHAT THE FUCK IS WRONG WITH YOU?! JUST FUCKING GO FASTER, YOU DOUCHE!”. I then would have found it necessary to pummel his face to a bloody pulp before connecting my fabulous shoes with his manhood, at which time he would crumple to the asphalt, meanwhile, I’d be standing with hand on hip waving my finger at him and yelling, ” I better not see you going under 60 mph, and if you use that finger at me again in any way other than a pleasure-inducing manner, I will fucking bite it off, you fucker.”
Yeah, that woulda shown him!