Hi, my name is Casey, and I have
road rage. I admit it; I drive fast, I scream obscenities, I swerve in and out
of traffic, I have even been known to chase a few people. But I only do these
things because a large part of the driving public is stupid. Yes, that’s right,
STUPID. There are certain rules of driving etiquette that must have escaped the
masses, because every single time I take to the roads I come across some idiot
who needs to take their ass back to driver’s ed. Maybe you are one of these people,
maybe it’s your mother or father, or god forbid, one of your grandparents.
Please, tell me, why must there always be that one slow dunce in the fast lane?
It’s called the “FAST” lane for a reason. When I come across this moron I will
ride their ass like butter on toast as I shake my fists violently. They usually
get the message and move over. And if they’ve taken too long to get out of my
way I give them the death stare as I speed past them. And I do mean SPEED past
them. I gun it, assertively letting them know to get the hell out of my way. Hopefully,
the next time they find themselves on the front bumper of a demon in the midst
of road rage hell they will get out of the way sooner.
And then there’s the wiseguy who knows you’re back there but wants to get his
rocks off by fucking with you. This is when road rage crosses the line and becomes
homicidal. My previous psyche of mere rage turns into a psychotic episode. My
hands tightly grip the steering wheel, exposing the whites of my knuckles. A volcanic
eruption of adrenaline rushes through my veins. The pupils in my eyes dilate.
There is no rational thinking involved in this state of mind, just pure, mainlined
revenge. You wanna dance motherfucker. Let’s dance!
The ensuing fit of rage usually involves a dance between the two cars. They speed
up, I back off. They slow down, I’m up their ass like a forced enema. And then
there’s the ever so glorious brake light serenade in which the wiseguy taps the
brakes causing the brake lights to flicker, but only pretending to be slowing
down or stopping. This clever technique cannot be used against me. It is in my
own arsenal of driving weapons; therefore, I know it well and use it accordingly.
I also take issue with the “I’m too preoccupied with my incredibly important phone
conversation to see that I’m driving in two lanes” driver. I swear, I see at least
one, usually two, drivers a day veering off the road, drifting into my lane, or
going slower than the speed limit because they are on the phone. When I realize
their behavior is the result of talking on the phone my psychotic tendencies take
over. I will pull alongside their car, match their speed, and attempt to have
a discussion using hand signals. This conversation usually ends with me yelling,
“Get off the phone you filthy bastard!” as I give them the one-finger salute.
The ironic part of my road rage is that outside of my car I’m a pansy. I’m no
adrenaline-junkie, nor am I violent by nature. I refuse to ever hurl myself out
of an airplane, or jump off a bridge with a rubber band attached to my ankles.
I avoid confrontational situations, preferring to let my ego take the beating.
But put me in a car and I become the spawn of Satan. I have so much confidence
I’m almost certain I could race my six-year-old Explorer in the Indy 500 and win,
all the while busting a few heads as I screech around the track.
I am sensing fear in your mind as you read this. Perhaps a question of my mental
health. And well, you should be scared, and you should definitely question my
sanity. I do.
My name is Casey, and I have road rage.
*written April 6, 2003 for an Advanced Writing class