I hope that guy’s not old

It happens to me about halfway through the road rage.  I’m making wild gestures with my arms like a crazy person, weaving back and forth to the edges of the lane, as if to vehicularly imply that I am going to pass the offending driver on either the median or the shoulder, and riding just a little too close to said driver’s bumper when I think to myself “Sheeeeeet.  I hope that guy’s not old.”

Old is one of the only excuses for driving as slowly as the majority of the cars I get stuck behind are driving. The other excuses are visually obvious: traffic jam, flat tire, police with radar gun on the horizon.  Old is the only excuse I can’t see coming until it’s far too late.

The majority of the time spent on the roads in LA is spent in horrendous traffic.  Really terrible traffic that people in other parts of the country just can’t understand.  It’s not rush hour, because that would imply it is going to thin out at a given and predictable hour.  Not the case.  It’s not stop and go…because it’s not GOing anywhere…ever.  It’s not special event related.  It just is.  All the time.  Everywhere.

This is why on a random Thursday when there is not a line of cars in front of me waiting to get over Laurel Canyon, I feel it’s appropriate to go as fast as my little lead foot will take me.  Law of averages: if I drive 100ish on the one day out of 10 that the PCH isn’t a parking lot, and on the other 9 days I drive..5ish, it still averages out to way below the speed limit.  Right, Officer?  Right.

On those few glorious days when I find myself driving a speed not Slow Children at Play approved, it really kills my soul in the face to have a dilly dallier in front of me.  Going the speed limit is bad enough…but BELOW the speed limit?  I simply can’t handle.  My mind goes off on the million annoying reasons why one could be driving that slow:

“He’s texting.  He’s fucking texting.  That fucking texter is slowing down my life.  I’m texting myself his number for later to call into the police.”

If it’s evening:

“You know what? She’s drunk.  I can tell she’s drunk.  One would only drive under the speed limit if they were drunk.  Fucking drunky drunky drunk! Arg I wish license plate numbers were phone numbers so I could call this bitch and tell her to speed her drunk ass up.”

And if I’m within a two mile radius of Hollywood and Highland:

“OUT OF TOWNER.  Jesus. H. Christ.  GO BACK TO THE EAST COAST, MASSHOLE!!  That California license plate isn’t fooling me.  I KNOW YOU’RE NOT FROM HERE!  TOURIST TRASH!”

Never do I think:

“That fellow citizen must be a SENIOR citizen.  I wish I could pull him over and thank him for being part of the greatest generation.  He’s probably picking up prescription medicine for his ailing wife.  Keep fighting the good fight, sir.”

Until it’s way too late and I’m just pulling up on a 4’8” old lady with blue hair, osteoporosis and the fear of God in her eyes…and by fear of God I mean fear of me.  That old lady is afraid of me, the crazy twenty something mouthing “FUCKING DRUNK TOURIST TEXTER” until, upon realizing how old and frail the fucking drunk tourist texter is, I do the sheepish “my b” shoulder shrug, two hand up, lip bite face squint that, realistically, scares her more.

I’m not an angry person.  I don’t know why my brain works the way it does when I’m in the driver’s seat.  I just know that the speed limit says 35, we should be going 50, and this asshole in front of me is going 28.  Time for the wild arm gestures.

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One Response to “I hope that guy’s not old”

  1. smokingjacketman Says:

    This blog title is genius. This blog is also great.

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