There is a nasty Nazi-like automotive organization out there which mandates that its members MUST drive SLOWLY when in front of me. And when I use the word “SLOWLY” I’m talking about driving at significantly reduced speeds which are normally only achieved by certain species of deceased earthworms.
And before any applicant can become full-fledged card-carrying members, they must first memorize the following CAPITALIZED and bolded masochistic motoring mantra. I’m going to type this slowly so that you can get the full effect.
“GET IN FRONT OF BILL DRURY AND ANNOY THE CRAP OUT OF HIM! RAH, RAH, RAH! LOOK AT HIM CRY! LOOK AT HIM SWEAR! LOOK AT HIM PUNCH HIS DASHBOARD! RAH, RAH, RAH!”
I can’t go anyplace, anytime, anywhere without finding myself behind one of these sloth-like slowpokes who drive so slow you occasionally have to dust them off. And these crawling commuters are absolutely EVERYWHERE, even in my hometown of Southern Cow Patty New Hampshire, which according to the last census, we have slightly less people living here than inhabit the moon. But these time-consuming travelers are still there! And after living in this community for some ten years now I have yet to be able to pull out of my driveway without FIRST having to stop and wait for one of these putt-putt-putting-along-putzes to pass by my 12-foot driveway which can take upwards of several weeks. And if you think that I am exaggerating, then let me give you an example.
It was a Tuesday, at 5:35 in the (nasty word) morning when I pulled down to the end of my driveway. I figured, “Hey, it’s Tuesday, at 5:35 in the (nasty word) morning. Who can possibly be out at this hour?” Aha, one of them, that’s who. So when I got to the end of my driveway, expecting to pull right out, instead I came bumper-to-bumper with one of these chugging along chumps.
Eventually this tooling along twit passed by, and I wisely decide NOT to pull out and drive behind old inching along idiot, because as aforementioned - 34 words ago - he was driving too slowly. Hold it! Wait just a dog done minute. You just stopped reading and counted back to check my math, didn’t you? Yes, you did too. Don’t lie to me. I never thought I would come across anyone who had more free times on their hands than I do, BUT I WAS WRONG because you do!
Anyway, instead of taking a right and getting stuck behind him, I decided to hang a left out of my driveway, and then hang another left onto a side street which runs parallel to my house. Now, these two roads do intersect about a mile up the road. But I wasn’t worried because I am the world’s fastest driver, and my van has a wicked case of windburn to prove it.
HOWEVER, what do you think I encounter on the back road of Southern Cow Patty New Hampshire? Of course, COWS, what else! These bothersome bovines are in the name of the town. I hate cows mainly because they have a limited vocabulary consisting of assorted variations of the word “moo.” And because cows have the nasty habit of standing in the road like they owned it, chewing their cud, looking at you with dumb cow-like expressions, and blocking your path, which consequently allowed HIM to reach the one mile intersection before ME, and which put ME behind HIM, thank you very much you miserable mooing milk machines.
Let me pause here for a moment to pass along two important bovine notes: 1) there are no cows on the moon. Okay, there is one, but it is dead, and it has been placed outside the local hardware store for kindergarten class to play with, and 2) Kids on the moon do not have a lot to keep them occupied. So a dead cow can be considered a huge source of entertainment.
Anyhow, so I found myself behind him and tailgating him close enough to be legally considered as a passenger in his back seat. Then, suddenly, I noticed why he was going so slowly: it’s because he was doing EVERYTHING but driving. He was yakking on his cell phone. He was fiddling with the knob on his radio. He was violently picking his nose. He was scrimshawing. He was basically doing everything BUT actually driving and paying attention while behind the wheel.
Suddenly, his left hand indicator went on. I thought to myself, “Yippie! He’s about to turn! Yee-Haw!” And then I briskly rubbed my hands together and giggled uncontrollably as I anticipated his turn.
So, we came to the first left…and he did not turn. Okay, so I once again thought to myself, “He’s just overly cautious,” which is a euphemistic statement roughly translated means, “HE’S AN OVERSIZED BUTT HEAD WHO’S IN MY WAY!”
Anyway, we came to and pass by six more potential lefts, none of which he took. That’s when it hit me: maybe he has a blown fuse, or perhaps he has a malfunction in his electrical system, and with any luck, his vehicle will detonate and I will scrape his face off of my windshield and be on my merry (nasty word) way. Not that I am selfish or self-centered or anything.
BUT his car did not explode, and we went along for ANOTHER ten miles at speeds almost reaching 1 MPH, almost. And at mile marker ten, that’s when it happened: he (brace yourself) turned RIGHT! Yes, you read that correctly; he turned RIGHT with his LEFT hand indicator on. BUT he did not just turn right and get it done with; he S-L-O-W-L-Y turned right by taking approximately seven hours, eight minutes, and twenty-three seconds, and he blocked the ENTIRE road during the whole grueling slow-motion turn. I hate him, but at least he was NOW out of my way.
Unfortunately, as I rounded the first turn I found an eighteen wheeler stopped in the street, with a cement truck stopped in front if it, with a farm tractor stopped in front of it, with a school bus stopped in front of it, and with a, you guessed it, a cow stopped and standing in the middle of this Southern Cow Pattie New Hampshire Road.
