You Are What You Drive

One of my tasks for today was getting a little routine maintenance out of the way for the Chipmobile. The place where I get it serviced is atop a hill, with access via a narrow two-lane road. While making today’s trip, I had to follow two Landcrushers up the hill.

The trailing Landcrusher made a right turn into a different garage from the one I’m heading to, after which the lead Landcrusher came to a full stop in the center of the road, straddling the yellow line. The middle-aged hag driving this POS got out and started sashaying past me, heading down the road the other vehicle had gone down. Ultra politely I asked, “Ma’am? Excuse me, ma’am, but you’re blocking the road. What are you doing?” She turned around, giving me the full Gorgon-face, and hissed, “I”m following my husband, you asshole!”

Apparently her dumbass husband hadn’t been competent enough to find the right garage entrance on a fucking two-lane blacktop, so this utter hag figured that she could just stop her goddam Ford Shitmobile wherever it suited her to go track down her moronic spouse. ‘Cause, I guess, any guy so stupid as to marry this broad can’t be trusted to figure out how to recover from a wrong turn.

Every jackass I’ve ever encountered who drives one of these monstrosities acts like the world is his driveway. What I don’t know is whether the reason is that douchebags are the ones who buy these things, or getting behind the wheel of one of these pieces of shit brings out your inner douchebag.

One thing I think I do know is that, when you get as old and as ugly as today’s Harridan of the Day, the only way you can “stop traffic” is to block it.

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