Ma’am, I need to politely request that you drive your car somewhere a little more suited to your unique driving style, like Lake Erie or possibly the middle of the Gobi Desert, before you get somebody hurt or killed.
Driving down a US highway where it has necked down to a single lane in each direction, tooling along at maybe 10 mph in a 45 zone, is asking for trouble. It’s probably illegal! Ordinarily I’d leave this to our fine constabulary, but since you were trailing a goddamn convoy of people who couldn’t pass you, it would take the police an hour and a half to catch up to you from the rear. To be fair, at the speeds you were going, they could just scramble a few cars from a nearby city (or really any city in North America) and have them blockade the next intersection in front of you. They’ll get there in plenty of time; the only worry is that the officers might have to start charging overtime while they wait for you to show up, and it’s possible that the insurance on their cars might expire.
I know you’re busy – I can tell you’ve got more important things to do, like finish dictating the Great American Novel to someone over your cell phone – but it is important for you to realize that you drive like old people fuck. Actually, that’s wishful thinking: “infrequently with as few spectators as possible” would be a great way for you to drive. You drive like a brain-damaged aborigine high on ceremonial herbs, trying to see through the haze of his vision quest in order to pilot an SR-71 Blackbird (no, the other one – the one on display at Dulles, which has had its engines removed). The only way you could go slower is to put it in reverse, and at least then I could pretend you were parking and go around you! Maybe you’re on the phone with someone who knows how to drive, and they’re giving you step-by-step directions? No, if that were the case, you’d be doing much better. You must be on the phone with a Polynesian witch-doctor who has never seen an automobile in his life, nor ever used a telephone, nor ever spoken English. It is only a shockingly improbable coincidence that the spell he’s chanting over and over to exorcise the evil spirits from the devil-box sounds to you like the English words “GO SLOWER AND WEAVE”. How did you even get his number?
About every two blocks on the road we were on today, you may have seen an intersection with a traffic control (you may have missed it with your phone glued to your ear and your head up your ass). Anyway, that traffic control turns red so that crossing traffic can clear out and to keep the green bulb from burning out while anticipating your never-quite-imminent arrival. I always knew there was a speed at which you could drive where all the lights would be green, but until today I didn’t realize there was a speed you could drive for which all the lights would turn red just as your car reached the intersection. You managed to find the maximum travel time between points A and B, barring unforeseen events like detouring through Los Angeles or waiting for the heat death of the universe. You also managed to lurch eerily towards the right whenever you approached an intersection – “Aha! Perhaps an un-signaled turn?” – and to the left whenever there was oncoming traffic. A few more inches to either side and I could have feasibly passed you without ever putting my foot on the gas pedal, since my car idling in Drive is still faster than your car. Perhaps it’s an experimental vehicle, that gets its momentum like a rocket ship, by hurling exhaust out the back at velocities as high as a snail’s fart? Perhaps you shared some of your drugs with your pet tree sloth and let him steer, so you could pay attention to your phone call? Whatever the case may be, it’s clear to me that driving faster than a pedestrian can walk in anything approximating a straight line is beyond your capabilities. Let the sloth drive next time.
If this were a murder case, and you were on trial for “Operating a Motor Vehicle” you’d get off in a minute. No jury could possibly convict you! It’s clear to me that while a crash test dummy or an ice-cream sandwich could probably accomplish some basic feats of vehicular daring with your car, it’s clearly beyond you: you may be entirely unaware that you’re even in a car - so there goes “means”. If anyone asks you later this week where you were Sunday afternoon, you’ll probably tell 'em you were talking to Skinny P, or your literary agent, or Godot, or whoever the fuck wants to hear you talk; do them a favor and invite them over to your house next time. Nobody could blame you for believing you were with them today, though, because you sure as hell weren’t in your car. Shit, that’s an airtight alibi, so there’s “opportunity”. And the fact that your velocity was not measurable using conventional means tells me you certainly didn’t have any “motive”.
Basically, I don’t think you could pass a driving test if I fed it to you with a bucket of prunes and an Ex-Lax brownie, you dumb shit. Learn to operate a fucking motor vehicle, hang up your fucking phone, and get your piece of shit sculpture-slash-performance-art-exhibit off the goddamned road before somebody dies of old age in the backup.
