You suck at driving, or: Get the hell out of the passing lane

Picture it: it’s a gorgeous autumn day, mid-morning, and you're driving down the freeway. Maybe you’ve got your window down, because gosh darn it, it’s just such a super-duper day outside and you want to enjoy it, by golly. The birds are singing. You’re singing along to whatever embarrassing music is on your iPod. Life is good.

You move over into the passing lane because, hey, you’ve got kind of a long way to drive, and maybe you want to cruise at 70mph. Meanwhile, the dim-eyed, slack-jawed simians who slid through the cracks at the DMV testing office—which coincidentally is also run by dim-eyed, slack-jawed simians—putter along at 45mph (on a 55mph highway, mind you) to their apeish little hearts’ content in the righthand lanes.

So far so good. But just as you’re feeling the wind in your hair and thinking about the delicious cup of coffee that awaits you at your destination, one of these idiots merges into your lane at a mindnumbingly slow speed, right in the middle of your soul-filled rendition of Journey’s classic hit “Don’t Stop Believin’”, causing you to slam your foot onto the brake and nearly have the front half of your head imploded by your own steering wheel. OK, you think, he’ll speed up—surely that’s why he merged into the passing lane.

Wrong. He merged into the passing lane because he’s a complete barking retard who clearly doesn’t understand the purpose of this particular feature of the American freeway system. For some reason, he can’t get it through his thick, nuclear warhead repellent brain housing that the passing lane is for passing. If it were known as the happy funtime going for a leisurely drive in the countryside lane, his actions might be justified. Even reasonable. You still might want to run him off the road in a fit of blinding fury and then punch him square in the face while belting out rock legend Bruce Springsteen’s anthem “Thunder Road,” but that’s neither here nor there.

So what do you do? This oxygen-sucking fleshbag is clearly oblivious to the fact that you have crept up dangerously close behind him, so you do a quick flash of your headlights to let him know you’re there. Sort of a non-verbal way of saying, “Excuse me, my fine fellow, but I believe you may have mistakenly entered the incorrect area for moving at a pace which is considerably slower than that of your fellow motorists. Might I ask that you kindly move over?” But of course, your polite request goes unnoticed—or ignored—by the thought-deficient sack of rocks before you.

You’re a law-abiding citizen. You’re an exceptional driver. So of course, under normal circumstances, you would never think of passing illegally on the right. But you’re desperate: your increasing pulse rate and steadily rising temperature indicate that a full scale meltdown is in your immediate future. You turn on your signal and look to your right. DAMN. As would be expected given your rotten luck, the next lane over is jam packed with an entire army of halfwits driving even more slowly than the beacon of stupidity in front of you. You flick your signal dejectedly into the off position.

So that’s it. You have no choice but to resign yourself to your torturous, slow moving fate. You’re reminded of one of those dreams where no matter how fast you try to run, it feels like your limbs are under water. Or encased in a block of stupid, stupid concrete. But this time, it’s all 100% real, and you’ve left your throwing knives at home. Again. So not only can you not hurl them with seemingly superhuman force at Retardo McMoron up there, you can’t even slit your own wrists with them. Maybe one of these days you’ll learn.