Road Rage

Note: This rant will veer into the Rated-R realm at times in order to preserve realism (i.e., my mouth and brain often cease communication when I'm behind the wheel, often ensuring overly hilarious monologue -- and I didn't want to completely deprive you of that sweet experience).

Just in case you've never had the pleasure of riding in any motor vehicle of which I was the conductor, allow me to inform you that I have road rage... in fact, it may be one of the single largest heretofore undocumented cases of roadrageism known to mankind.

As a youth, I developed the horrible practice of internalizing all of my frustration and anguish -- which has led to many a vicious outburst in my adult life. This can be no more evident if you've seen/heard me drive through traffic. I have no sympathy for the old man in front of my with the PD tags -- I'm just looking for an extra lane via which I can circumnavigate that slow-ass sumamabitch. I don't care about that couple from Wyoming that is lost and is simply looking for a space to pull over. I wish that flock of geese would test me. Ludacris' "Move Bitch" was music to my ears when first released. Simply put: I turn into a Roadrageasaurus Rex when I'm behind the wheel and have negligible patience levels for bad driving. I'm not overly-aggressive, but it doesn't take much to piss me off.

Recently, I almost killed me a couple of white boys on the Roosevelt Boulevard in Philadelphia (Editor's note: I'm in no way a racist. I love everybody. Seriously. It was just funnier if I tossed that descriptor in there). Roosevelt Blvd may be one of the most treacherous roadways in America. I'm sure somebody has written a vicious smear campaign against this 12-lane behemoth NON-HIGHWAY that runs clear across the northern part of Philadelphia and into the next county. If you could pick a street never to traverse by foot, this would have to go at the top of your list.

So anyway, these two douchebags pull off into the right-most lane. I proceed to make the same move behind them, as I needed to turn right off of this asphalt mastodon; apparently by doing so, I raised the ire of the 2 fine aforementioned gentlemen (Editor's note: To this day, I still don't know how and/or why). They proceed to honk their horns and still their middle fingers out of every orifice of that 2-door shitmobile of theirs. Initially, I passed it off as 2 drunkards going wild after midnight... however, after sitting at a green light for 2-3 minutes as they continued with their aviary gestures -- only to further be fueled by the considerate dose of honk that I began to provide. Suffice it to say that a healthy shouting match ensued. A short chase and near introduction to my steering wheel lock later, I had raised my blood pressure about 7,000 points and later had to ask myself -- why?

I know I have a problem and I need to talk to somebody about it. As a youth, I tried yoga for awhile (to positive results)... but it's obvious that follow-up is very much needed here in my adulthood. I guess I've made the first step already: I'm admitting that I have a problem. Now it's time to attempt positive change. The last thing I'd need is for my life to be taken from me in a flash of anger... or worse yet, to perpetuate the madness by infecting my future progeny with the same affliction. Just like physical abuse, I want to be proactive and end this vicious cycle before it's too late.

In the meantime... GET OUT THE WAY, BITCH -- GET OUT THE WAY!