(Some folks just need killin’)
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Last week, I had to face freeway driving in America…twice. It was a vile, violent experience, and now my soul is soiled. But on the plus side, I got to slay seven morons, while getting excellent mileage.
So the week wasn’t a total loss.
Actually, I just picked the seven victims at random from the plentiful pool of potential perps in last weekend’s South Carolina freeway traffic. There were multiple dozens of potential “justifiable homicide” candidates among the rabid lunatics I narrowly avoided colliding with, as they single-mindedly barreled north on the 26 freeway from Charleston SC to points unknown.
Some time ago, I shared with you my theory that I own an invisible car, as that was the only scenario that could explain the insane behavior of other drivers. But since then, I’ve bought a new car, and even I’d have to admit to the unlikely odds of me getting two invisible cars in a row. So we’re back to the “insane behavior” argument.
The reason I had to buy a new car, of course, was due to the insane behavior of other drivers, or, put more precisely, the insane behavior of après-driving drivers (i.e., parkers). One pre-dawn morning last year, on my way to work, I drove over a rise to face two cars, both cleverly parked in the street. And being the follow-through, thorough guy that I am, I managed to hit them both.
I never met the two creative parkers, so I never learned the truth behind their Driveway Navigation Impairment Syndrome, but I’m guessing a great deal of beer was involved.
Fortunately…and obviously…I survived the Great Parked Car Gauntlet of 2016, but last weekend, it seemed to me that the “Kill Barry” B Team was out in full force on the freeway, ready to try again.
I imagine that part of the triage analysis that makes me and my car such a tempting target for rogue freeway rednecks is my vehicle’s size. My new car, like my ex-car, is one of the few remaining one-story automobiles on Earth. Compared to the hordes of Semis, Suburban Assault Vehicles, Utes, Dually-modified Ford F-150 (with optional Abattoir Interior package), and Airstreams towing two john boats and his-and-her off-white-tinted Prius compacts with “My Other Car Is An Endangered Whale” bumper stickers, my car is like a wide-eyed hobbit caught off-guard at a Middle-Earth orc convention.
But whatever the motivation, I’m a target on the freeway…and I don’t like it. If I wanted to be the intentional objective of subjective abuse, I’d start dating again. (At least then I could lie about the size of my vehicle.)
If you’re not familiar with South Carolina, there’s a tacit but understood commandment that applies to freeway activity: Yea, shalt thou knocketh four seconds off thy total trip, byeth whatever means necessary (a direct quote pulled from the New Testament’s book of Fill-Uppians, Chapter 55 Max, BB King & Etta JamesVersion).
Remember, South Carolina’s main paved roads are the primary corridor linking the humid paradise that is Florida with American snowbirds, Canadian tourists, confused illegal aliens, and non-indicted cocaine dealers, all furiously determined to get to a peninsula that already has so much cocaine that white adults are skipping all-you-can-eat lunch buffets.
And as such, in South Carolina, our tourism-based economy depends primarily on tourism-related resources:
• Speeding tickets
• Stuckey’s Pecan Logs
• Stuckey’s post-Pecan Log bathroom fees
• ER stomach-pump fees after eating Stuckey’s Pecan Logs
• Cracker Barrel breakfasts that would qualify as ballast on most 18th Century naval vessels
• Cracker Barrel gift shop sales of “Jim Nabors’ Favorite Christmas Carols” cd’s
• Cracker Barrel gift shop sales of violently racist salt & pepper shakers
• Lawsuit cash settlements resulting in exposure to Jim Nabors’ cds
So, as you drive through South Carolina on your way to some other destination, please respect me and my midget-mobile.
I’m just trying to avoid Jim Nabors, Etta James, and racism.