I don't experience road rage. I suppose, I should be honest. Sometimes, I get a little cranky with people who don't give the gratuitous wave when I let them in traffic before me. Generally though, I don't get enraged in traffic because I am the one who is driving like an a$$hole.
I don't need to be driving. I'm not good at it. I want someone who will drive me places. All I want is to sit in the front seat like a grown up. I won't even touch the stereo. I will just sit there and look cute and talk and talk and talk.
Yesterday, Jamie was driving me downtown to a concert. Jamie gets angry when she drives. It doesn't matter what's on the stereo. Music does not soothe the savage driver. She is perpetually angry when she drives.
I am used to her road rage and it doesn't bother me anymore. She calls me when she is driving to tell me about the cocksucker who just cut her off. I am not offended by her misuse of the term cocksucker, although it seems to me that the term should be sacred and used only in the purest form. If the Cocksucker Party decides to lobby Congress for exclusive rights to the term, I will sign every petition. I am not ashamed. I would be their spokesmodel if they would only ask. I would proudly attend legislative sessions with my nametag, "Mist 1, Cocksucker."
But, in Jamie's car, yesterday, I had a revelation. I think driving with Jamie is a lot like having sex with her. I've never slept with her that I can recall, but I think I know what it's like. As we sped down the street, weaving through traffic she yelled;
"Not there A$$hole!" and,
"Can't we go any faster?" and,
"Jesus f*cking Christ moron, let me get in front of you!"
I closed my eyes and imagined her in a sexy negligee. I didn't speak another word until we got downtown.
I asked her to stop at Victoria's Secret before we got to the concert. I needed dry panties.