So I'm driving about town running errands and singing along to "I Want You Bad", and I eventually realized that not even the delightful songs of my bitter youth could quell my deeply-seeded Road Rage.
It should be noted that I am a Class-A terrible driver. I mean, atrociously bad even under normal circumstances, surrounded by well-piloted cars obeying any and all traffic devices. Throw in a couple douchebags who slipped through the cracks of the Department of Licensing, and my quaint little Jetta becomes vehicular bitch-slap waiting to happen.
It should be noted that I am a Class-A terrible driver. I mean, atrociously bad even under normal circumstances, surrounded by well-piloted cars obeying any and all traffic devices. Throw in a couple douchebags who slipped through the cracks of the Department of Licensing, and my quaint little Jetta becomes vehicular bitch-slap waiting to happen.
Rage Recipient #1: Dude in the Chevy S10 with those stupid fake hairy testicles hanging from his trailer hitch.
Method of Rage-Disbursement: Pretty tame. I gave you a look of disgust as I passed you and cut you off, then drove exactly three under the speed limit. Oh, and I decided I will never, ever have sex with you, ever. Nope.
Okay, Dude. I'll be honest. I have the sense of humor of a fourteen year old boy--I will laugh at any dick or boob joke that you could possibly tell me, and I doodle pooping hippopatamuses when I should be taking notes in class. I'm no prude when it comes to tasteless genetalia references. Even that being the case, I cannot express in words the numerous ways your hairy rubber balls offend me. I sure will try, though.
You see, Dude, the problem is quite simple: Testicles, especially hairy, blue rubber testicles, are bum-fucking ugly. I know they house your future generation and boy-Howdy are you proud of them, but I am confused at your need to hang a (hugely exaggerated) replica from your trashmobile. I do not need to be reminded that you are in possession of a reproductive system, because it just serves as a depressing reminder that you and your Natural Ice-drinking brethren are one faulty condom away from Fatherhood. But I do have to applaud you for saving many a woman plenty of time by coming right out and saying it: "I am a classless chode and you do not want my testicles anywhere near your naked body."
Rage Recipient #2: A house. An entire fucking HOUSE.
Method of Rage-Disbursement: Pretty self-contained. I loudly took the Lord's name in vain and used variations of the word "fuck" a few times, but mostly I got the hell. Out. The way. After pooping my pants.
This picture just does not capture the full ridiculousness of this scenario. We've all seen manufactured homes being transported, followed by the poor soul driving the truck with the "Wide Load" flashing sign on it, who will be deprived of seeing the horizon for miles and miles. But usually these little houses are CUT IN HALF! Two half-houses, right, cut down the middle lengthwise? So that they can be contained in roughly the space of a traffic lane, maybe a smidge more?
Oh no, not this pompous ass of a house. This house was like, "Bitch, please. I ride in full double-wide style."
Imagine driving on the 205 bridge and encountering AN ENTIRE MOTHERLOVING HOUSE taking up two FULL lanes of traffic. Did I mention this was on a bridge? A bridge I could drive off of, thus losing my LIFE?! And did I mention that I didn't realize this house was taking up two full lanes of traffic until I nearly rear-ended a fucking LIVING ROOM? I don't know about you, but I would not want to live in a home that had been convicted of vehicular manslaughter. "See that hole in the corner of the wall there, Jimmy? That's where our House ran a school bus full of screaming children off the road."
I could go on, about the smoking soccer mom with all those retarded turtle stickers meant to represent her children (Jesus H. Christ, do I hate those things), or the idiot with the muffler so loud and bass so high that my car practically became a giant sex toy being stopped next to him, or the girl who killed her engine five times in a row and made me miss my light.
I could. But honestly, typing the words "hairy blue rubber testicles" and reliving the experience of nearly colliding with a giant traveling house-on-wheels has made me batty. I'm going to go drink copiously and listen to my Offspring CD in the safety of my very own home. Which is on the ground. Where houses belong.
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