YOU'RE not a good driver.
That might be difficult for you to hear - especially over the sound of all the cars around you crashing into each other while you drift across six lanes of traffic so you can text, "What up, dawg?" to your mother - but it's true.
Why? Glad you asked:
* You've made 16 turns since
you've been in front of me, but the only blinking light I've seen is the Bluetooth jammed into your ear (which makes you look like a tool, by the way).
* It's 7:58 a.m., I'm late for work, and you're doing 65 in the left lane. I know it's a free country, and it's your right to drive whatever speed you like in whichever lane you prefer. But it's also my right to toss my breakfast burrito at your windshield as I pass.
* There's a long line for the exit ramp, but instead of waiting like everybody else, you cut in front of a bus full of nuns at the last second. I hope they're ninja nuns who'll bust into your oh-so-important meeting with the other copy-machine salesmen and pull your lip over your face.
* You hit your brakes, hard, whenever the car in front slows down by more than 1 mph, even though that car is, technically, far enough ahead to be in another state.
* You've spent time, effort and the gross national product of Switzerland to make your car look like a spaceship. Blue lights on the undercarriage, flashing lights on the windshield, rims, spoilers. Try staying off the road until you're driving a big-boy car, OK?
* You drive a tractor-trailer loaded with 18,000 tons of toxic waste, but for some reason believe your vehicle should handle like an Italian sports car. (The only time something that big should weave through traffic at that speed is if it's Jon Corzine's motorcade, and he's late for a very important meeting, like watching "Ugly Betty" with his homeys.)
* We're sitting in traffic, nobody's moving, and you honk your horn. As if the rest of us all just decided to put our cars into park and pontificate on the meaning of life in the middle of the turnpike.
* You cut me off in the left lane only to then drive slower than the cars in the middle lane. When I go to pass you, you accelerate to the point where your speedometer reading is higher than your IQ. Let me ask you something: When you played Candyland as a kid and didn't win, you hurt people, right?
* The road is clear; traffic light. Then a single snowflake hits your windshield. You decide the safest way to proceed is to put your car in neutral and lean forward.
* The highway has been obliterated by a storm so intense that rain, sleet, snow, ice and hail big enough to fill the space in Rick Santorum's head are all falling at once, and you decide the safest way to proceed is to drive along as if it were any other day on the track at the Daytona 500.
* To you, "merging" means "stop dead in the middle of the on-ramp and wait until the county erects a traffic light just behind where you want to get on the highway."
* You believe that if you miss your exit and were to continue driving, the highway would drop off the face of the earth and plunge you into a world of darkness where monsters and the people who host morning talk-radio shows dwell. It's the only reason I can think of why you immediately throw your car into reverse and run 15 people off the road to get to the exit you just missed. The one that's merely a quarter-mile farther down the same road as where the very next exit would have put you.
* The only way you know how to successfully negotiate a four-way stop is to have a professor from the nearest university hold a three-hour seminar explaining the rules of driving etiquette in the middle of the intersection.
* You're from Delaware.
That's it for now. I'll get back to you after you do something else stupid on the road. Until then, take a bike to work. *