Mad Mike

Mad Mike

My daughter tells me I smack my lips when I drive, and, if I do, it’s because I’m eating my words. Opinions, mostly, like my feelings about parents of honor students. Or Volvo drivers who know they’re cocooned and you’re not. A small woman astride a behemoth SUV, or a big galoot overflowing a Smart car. Drivers whose other vehicle is a bicycle, and this one should be, too. They who, Nyquill or no, have no business operating machinery. Who couldn’t manage two tons of mass at rest. Speed racers with four-wheeled crotch rockets between their legs. Those times I find myself being all that stands between a Dodge Ram and the open road. First time and last time drivers. The Asian driver consigning two billion people to stereotype. The bus riding public too proud to admit it. Anyone in a Buick Regal or Toyota Legend, particularly with the optional gold chrome. When you can’t see the driver in a Cadillac and don’t know if it’s a short Jewish man or a brother cruising. Women who feel it’s rude to stare at the road while on the phone, and men on their cells who manage to keep both hands on the wheel. Lady Guadalupe rear windows. Hatless bald guys middle-aged and worse in Boxsters. Anyone who hangs a rosary from the rear view mirror, particularly when they tell it. F-150’s whose extended cabs too obviously compensate for foreshortened beds. Prius mileage freaks whose 11th Commandment is “Go 22, 23 tops,” and for whom 50 mpg is the holy grail.
Plenty, in short, to make a guy smack his lips.

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