Long, long ago in a land far, far away, a young boy wearing only a red baseball cap came up with the genius idea of cars. He drew up conceptual pictures, slept with corporate executive men to persuade them into investing in his dream and murdered his entire family so he could turn his own house into the first ever, automobile factory. Who was this young man of brilliance?
His name was Henry fuckin' Ford, that’s who! Regardless of what you may have learned in school, or via the History channel, when Ford first devised the car, he not only did it to have a private area to masturbate and snort coke off his dogs back, but he wanted a thrifty way for the townspeople to travel from point A to point B, plain and simple. For years, people used the vehicle to drive around town, taking care of their day-to-day errands. The only extra curricular activity that took place in the car besides driving would be the occasional session of awkward intercourse at the local superstore carpark. Its a shame that the times have indeed changed. Now autos are used for just about everything, except driving...which has pretty much taken a back seat. In case you were wondering, this is the part where you laugh at my poorly placed pun, thanks.
Your car is not a bathroom. I don't know how late for work you people are that you insist on doing your morning grooming duties in your front seat while you are barreling down the road, rather than in the comfort of your tiled lavatory, but it needs to stop. This morning on my way to occupation land, I was behind a car going 20 kilometers under the speed limit on the motorway. Of course, I was intrigued at to what monstrosity must be causing this individual to refrain from corresponding with the regulatory momentum recommendation, so I pulled up along side to take a gander into the driver side window. What did I see? A lady with her visor down, mirror open, plucking her God damned eyebrows. What the shit is that about? She’s not only making me late, but she’s gambling with the chance of fatally colliding with a school bus full of mentally defective children.
Your car is not a library. How can you possibly see a benefit in reading the newspaper during your motored migration? I have enough trouble remembering what I just read when I'm skimming a book in the safety of my den, so I don't see how you can retain information from a periodical when you are looking back at the road every other second to make sure you haven't gone off course and into the depths of a nearby forest. Can't you just wait until your lunch break this afternoon to find out how expensive gasoline prices are or how rich the fucking president is? Better yet, why don’t you flip your radio to the AM side and lend an ear to the vocalized news station. That way you can keep your eyes on your surroundings and your hands on your fur covered steering wheel. If my recommendation still doesn't sway you from poor judgment, then try reading "Suicide for Dummies" while engaged in expedition. I believe we are all here to serve some sort of purpose, and your point of being a fucking idiot has already been achieved, So go right ahead and do a quadruple barrel roll over the Tagus river and head on into the nearest fucking cruise liner. I'll be sure to read about you in the newspaper obituary section on my drive to work tomorrow.
I will probably be scorned for this, but your car is not a phone booth. Ok, I know it’s next to impossible these days to drive a mile without making a call. Shit, whenever I look at my car I unsheathe my phone purely out of habit. What upsets me are the people who flap their jaws and "throw out" the obvious notion that they are simultaneously piloting a 3500 lb powerhouse. Sure, its all well and good to let your mind wander while you are talking to Tracy about last nights episode of "Dr. House", but you should try to be sympathetic of the feeling of shear horror that the person in front of you at the stop light is experiencing as they watch your Toyota Camry rapidly approach their rearview mirror like a fucking Tsunami. If you can't do two things at once, than stick to the phone and ditch the car. There is no excuse for aborting sensibility just because your “mogly” sounds off. If you can't help it, then you are obviously "special" and belong in a white room, wearing Velcro shoes, watching cartoons and eating a bowl of fresh cut grass. Grow up and drive like an adult or invest in a nerdy Bluetooth headset, because the next time I see you swerving across lanes, coming close to collision or slugging along just because you are in mid cellular conversation, I'm going to pay a Cingular employee, of larger stock, to rape you and give the rest of your family golden showers. Hopefully, your sore genitals and the stench of urine emanating for your loved ones will remind you to drive responsibly, you fucking asshole.
-