No asshole, I don't want to 'race' you


I don't know my choice of transportation encourages every mullet with a camaro or backwards-hat-wearing fart-can Honda driving tool to pretend to be Mario Andretti or "Big Daddy" Don Garlits.

Three nights this week I've had assclowns in every manner of conveyance pull up next to me, and start revving their engines furiously, glancing eagerly in my direction, hoping that I'll take the bait, and the race will be on. Last night it was some redneck dipshit in an S-10 pickup with glowing windshield washer nozzles (gives you 10 extra horsepower!), who dropped his clutch, and took off, but forgot he was only 30 feet behind the car in front of him. Unfortunately, he managed not to rear-end the car.

Thursday night, a real challenger appeared - a Mercury Contour with a tailpipe the size of my head (and I've got a pretty fat melon). He farts along side me, gives the hamsters under the hood a kick and takes off... slows down... repeats... three or four times. At the next light in Greater Bluffelson, we end up side by side, and he's got the throttle to the floor, and I'm wondering if his car is going to explode just sitting there. The light goes green, and there's a terrible screech of burning tires, and he's off toward the horizon, deeply dissappointed that I'm still sitting at the light pissing myself laughing.