The speed limit on Henry Road is 30 mph.
I was, in fact, doing 37 at the time. So what in the wide, wide world of sports did you think you were going to accomplish by trying to polish my licence plate with the nose of your flyspecked, loser-beige blandmobile?
If you had brains between your ears, instead of string cheese, you might have noticed the police station you had passed just prior to perching on my bumper, and might have divined that cruisers roll up or down that road every five minutes or less, all day long. Too bad one didn’t come along while you were practicing your Daytona drafting skills on me.
If you had eyes in your head, instead of a pair of wobbling eight balls, you might have seen the broken, bright yellow line prominently visible in the middle of the road, and that there was no approaching traffic during the entire time you were behind me. Pronounce it along with me, verrry slowwwly: “le-gal pass-ing zone”.
If you had the slightest glimmer of native intelligence, instead of an advanced degree in Dumbass from Texas Dumbass University,
you might have realized that rolling right up to my rear bumper and turning on your brights (in broad daylight) was unlikely to have any effect at all on my right foot, except to cause it to slowly but surely lift further and further off the accelerator.
Yes, I see you gesturing and babbling to yourself. Yes, I see the thunderous scowl that gives you a face like a slapped ass. Yes, I see you trying to pull up alongside me as we approach the intersection, and rolling down your window to give me a piece of – well, it couldn’t be your mind, since you haven’t got one – what, a piece of your string cheese? Whoops, there I go, turning off to the right, while there you sit, stewing in your rancid juices. Buh-bye.
Bottom line, you drooling shithead, is that unlike you I’m in no particular hurry; I don’t respond to bullying, and I simply don’t
care where it is you think, if that is the word, you’ve got to go.
Of course, there’s no chance that you might ever read this, as that would imply your possessing basic reading skills that, frankly, I doubt you could ever muster. Guess I’ll just have to take comfort in the knowledge that the ninety eternal seconds you spent furiously staring at my car’s ass ruined your whole day.