Wednesday, March 16, 2005

Minnesota Nice is a myth

Today, on my all-too-enthralling commute to work I entered the 'holy-shit-son-you-better-slow-down' zone with the two cars (one in each lane) directly ahead of me actually SLOWING DOWN.

Normally, I slow down to a hair under 10-over the posted speed limit as the cops in this handy little wanna-be speedtrap are as thick as conservative, bible-quoting Republicans are in Mississippi.

Now, slowing down wouldn't have been a problem except that I actually like to get to work earlier so I can leave earlier or bank some more time to bulk up my check. The other issue happens to be the used car lot moving at 70+ MPH directly behind me.

Needless to say, commuters in this particular area have asshole written all over them. The guy directly behind me (a gentleman with a heavy-metal type goatee and a brightly colored tatoo on his left arm who was driving his youngster to school in his - get this - maroon 4-door Dodge Neon) threw up his hands and was obviously mouthing more obscenities in 30 seconds than I do in the course of a week. Nothing says fish out of water than more than a tatooed guy with a rocker goatee driving a Dodge Neon with his elementary-aged kid in the back seat.

In true Minnesota-Nice fashion, he flipped on his signal light to change lanes and proceeded to violently swerve towards the opposite lane (leaving mere inches between cars) just as I did the exact same thing. This maneuver sent him directly over the edge as we essentially cut each other off. I was nearly afraid to look in one of my mirrors for fear he would soon have the desire to ram my head through a kick drum left in his basement from his 'cool' days when he worked nights schlepping pallets - right before he knocked up his old lady and sold his guitar to pay for diapers and this snazzy Dodge Neon which is the result of him selling his '85 Chevy Camaro - complete with t-tops.

This entire event resulted in, you guessed it, both of us arriving at the second stoplight off of the highway at the exact same moment. Proving again that, somewhat for both of us, driving like a dipshit gets you nowhere at the same time.

Let's just hope, for the sake of wanna-be-rocker-dude's child that he watches his potty mouth or the child will be saying to his teacher "Can I have a fucking blue marker to color this shit?"

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