Howdy. I’m Mac Adams. Maybe you’ve heard of me 'round these here parts. I own the road.
You’ve probably seen me at some time or ‘nother as I travel the highways and biways of this great country of ours. I drive a bunch of different vee-hickles, depending on muh mood. Sometimes I’m in a big ol’ four-wheel-drive pickup, an’ other times I’m haulin’ ass in a Bee-Emm-Dubya or one o’ them there CORvettes. I got an SUV or two, and just fer kicks sometimes I haul out my dinky little To-Yoter Prius. (Really freaks folks out when they see me in that puppy.) Maybe you’ve even thought to yourself, “Does that guy think he owns the road?”
Yep. I shore do. Paid a pretty penny for it, too, let me tell you. But she’s mine, all right, to do with as I please. Ever’ damn inch of her. I could stop muh car in the middle of rush-ahr traffic on the freeway, pull down m’pants and get to fornicatin’ with the asphalt right there. If’n I wanted to, that is. I don’t want to, 'cause you can get a nasty rash on your dingus that way. But I could if’n I wanted. 'Cause I own it. All of it. Got the receipt to prove it.
You probably ain’t seen me around much lately, on account of I been hangin’ out around Birmingham, Alabama. Pretty town, lemme tell you. Nice roads. 'Course, I own 'em, y’know.
I been hanging around this here fella, calls himself Sow-ron. God knows why. Why ennybody’d wanna name themselves after a girl pig is beyond me. I figger he ain’t got the sense God gave a rabid turtle sittin’ on a Ritz cracker. So I thinks to m’self, “Let’s have a little fun with this here Sow-ron character.”
So I commenced to funnin’ with him. T’other day he was pullin’ out into an intersection. Just gettin’ off work. I bet he was in a hurry to get home; he’s got hisself a purty little wife and some fine young’uns. He was obeyin’ all the traffic rules and such, which is fine and dandy, but rules don’t mean jack-squat to Mac Adams, Owner of the Road. It’s my propitty, and I can do what I want with it.
I waited until he was makin’ his little left-hand turn at the intersection, then I gunned my 1976 El Camino (I got one o’ them, too, did I tell you? Brown as a bug turd and twice as ugly) and pulled into the same lane he was in from the opposite direction. Timed it juuuuuust right. He nearly didn’t see me comin’, but at the last instant he swerved outta my way right when I was pullin’ into his lane. I pretended not to pay him no heed, but I could see him in my rear-view just a wavin’ his arms and cussin’. He looked kinda like a chicken havin’ an epileptic fit. I nearly busted a gut laughin’.
Next day, I was s’posed to head on up to New York City; I spend a lot o’ time there, doncha know. But I kept thinkin’ and thinkin’ about how funny that Sow-ron fella looked, and I finally decided I just had to mess with him a little more. This time I used one of my SUVs (I ain’t got nearly as many of them as people seem to think, but they do come in right handy occasionally). I got in front of him on his way home, and acted like I wasn’t gonna do anything wrong a’tall. But once we got on that little two-lane road close to his house (I own that road too, o’course), I put on my right blinker and acted like I was gonna turn into a little side street. But what I did was, I just sat there. Prob’ly didn’t move for a coupla minutes, at least. Blinker just a-goin’ the whole time. Blinkety-blinkety-blink. That Sow-ron guy couldn’t see nothin’ around me, on account of I was drivin’ my biggest SUV, so he didn’t know if he could pull around me or not. Oooh, was he fit to be tied! I mean to tell you! He kept makin’ little helpful gestures with his hands, like he was tryin’ to say “Turn already!” I thought about gettin’ out and fornicatin’ with the road, just to show him who owned it (that’d be me). But m’dingus wadn’t quite healed from the last time I did that, up around Seattle. So I just set, and set, and set. Finally he up and zoomed around me. Durn fool nearly got hisself kilt, too, on account of there was a car comin’ the other way. He swerved around it, though.
The kicker came yesterdy. He was headin’ in to work, this time. About five miles from his interstate exit, I started creepin’ my car (little Miata, this time; I call her Clarice) over into his lane. I’d let ‘er creep a bit, then move back. Creep some more, move back. He couldn’t get away from me, on account of the traffic bein’ so heavy, but I could tell he wanted to just mash his foot down and make me eat dust. Lord, he was gettin’ flusterated. I’d creep ‘er over, and he’d swerve way the hell into the breakdown lane. (Yup. Own that too.) It got to where all I had to do was let my little Clarice just twitch a bit in his direction, and he’d be spewin’ up gravel and chewin’ up turf on the far side of the breakdown lane. I ain’t had so much fun since I got to touch Nixon’s gallstones on the tour of his li’bry at Yorber Linder. 'Course he was already dead at the time, and his gallstones were in a little display. I prob’ly weren’t s’posed to touch 'em, but I figured, hell, how often do you get the chance to touch the gallstones of a President?
So anyway, that Sow-ron guy finally reached his exit, and I let ‘im go. I really ought to mosey on up the road (which I own, y’know), and quit buggin’ him. I got other places to be. He just gets so antsy, and he turns all purple and such, and be dogged if it ain’t fun.
If’n you see me out and about, remember to stay clear of me, now. I ain’t studyin’ on hurtin’ nobody, but y’all need to remember the road is mine, and I can do what I please on ‘er. I can prove it, too. If you don’t like my drivin’, just ask me if I think I own the road. I’ll show you my receipt real quick-like.
I’ve got a miniature version of it printed on the fingernail of my middle finger.