I don’t just play bass and write blog posts. I also fight crime.
This makes me a super-hero of sorts. I just need a fancy costume with a cape and a moist name like “Justice Driver.”
Every day I get behind the wheel of my vehicle and proceed to combat the evil of those that wish to exceed the speed limit. Since I am very busy with my day to day life, I am limited to my role of Justice Driver only part time, but I still try to do my share. I don’t have any fancy technology like Batman or amazing powers like Superman. I have yet to have my nads chomped on by a radioactive stripper, so no mutations either. I do, however, have a few tricks that I have learned over the years.
My favorite technique to fight those godless, heathen fucks is to simply do the right thing according to the state. I get over into the fast lane and go as fast as I can as permitted by law. I don’t want to go slow, but at the same time I do not wish to succumb to peer pressure and turn to the dark side of vehicular criminal behavior. People get fucking pissed as hell over this. You would not believe how many folks act as if I had just tea-bagged the anus of the Pope’s mother during Easter Sunday Mass.
Several people try and tell me that I’m just being a dick, and that the far left lane is reserved for hauling balls. But I know in my heart that they are just jealous of my amazing moral fortitude and in denial of the huge weight of guilt that they each must carry for their heartless, daily, transportation transgressions.
If what they say were indeed the truth, then the far left lane would be known as the “Judas Priest Lane” or “Breaking the Law Lane.” Last I checked you could still get a ticket for blasting down the road in that lane at higher rates of speed than those allowed. Logically, this tells us that the fast lane is for those that are going quicker than slower traffic, but still inside the bounds of the law. If the speed limit is 70mph and I am going 70mph exactly, then I deserve to drive in the fast lane, because it is IMPOSSIBLE for me to go any quicker without instantly becoming a criminal fuckbag.
Why would they design something, bind it to certain rules of engagement, and then expect everyone to defy it. If that was the intention from the start, why not just designate the left lane to be speed limitless, like the autobahn or something. There are places where the left lane is designated as being for passing only and in these places; I stay the hell out of it (usually because I am never passing anyone anyway).
Not only is it my duty as a good citizen to never exceed the posted speed limits while driving, it is also important to not assist others in evil. By moving over to the right lane to allow somebody going 85 mph to blast past, I am aiding someone in committing a crime. This makes me just as sinister as the asshat who just shot by in a blur of wickedness.
If, instead of driving, we were talking about a group of people about to rape your kid sister with a butter squash, you would be very happy to hear that I did not do anything to assist those bastards in their goals. I like butter squash. And though your sister may be a bitch, rape is never the answer and she or anyone else does not deserve it.
That is why I try to do what I can on the highway daily to help out the human condition. I do it because, according to God, all sins are equal, and if he is right about that than speeding and child-rape are the same damn thing. Makes you think a little different about the guy that just sped by in that Volvo doesn’t it.
This is not to say that all of this self-sacrifice on my part is without reward. If you have never heard of “Dr. Froth’s Theory on Good Day Mechanics” then you would not immediately understand where I am coming from. Of course, if you are familiar with this theory than you are either a close friend of mine or completely full of shit. That, or you have already read this before and are now re-reading it. If this is the case, than I would like to congratulate you on your amazing taste in reading material.
Anyway, back to “Dr. Froth’s Theory on Good Day Mechanics” or DFTGDM for short.
DFTGDM proposes that the sense of “good will” and positive energy is not an endless bounty of mystical benevolence, but instead a terrestrial element of finite quantity. That means that there is only (x) amount of this feeling in the world at any one time and it is being constantly moved around between people.
This theory can be expressed in the following equation:
X = (C+DBS)-RBS
Here X is the good vibes, C is the current circumstance, DBS is the bullshit delivered onto other people and RBS is the bullshit received by you by the other jerks of the world.
The only way to get more of this feeling (feeling X) is to have it given to you willingly or for you to take it by force using the above equation. Essentially, the secret of happiness is to simply deal out more psychological aggravation than you are forced to consume.
Think about it. Let’s say you are trying to enter the freeway and some assbasket refuses to let you over from the onramp and thus forces you to immediately exit because of his dickish shenanigans. No matter how great a morning you have had up to this point, you are now a more pissed than you were. The amount of your fury really depends on your temperament, but very few (if any at all) folks would go through this experience without their blood pressure rising a few points.
Now I want you to think about a time where you cut off some bastard trying to force his way through traffic. You sped up just a hair to block him in with a large eighteen wheeler so that he could not get around at all. You know he is now extra pissed and how does that make you feel. If you thought this bastard had it coming, than you probably feel pretty good about it.
Why? Why do you feel good about this?
DFTGDM is why. When you were forced off the highway, there was a transfer of the good vibes from you to the individual that hosed you. When you blocked off Speed Racer with the big rig, some of his good vibes came to you. He is more pissed than he was in the moments prior to this incident and you feel better than you did before. There occurred transference of energy. The next time you are having a bad day, just ride heavy on the brake and feel all those good sensations descend upon you like a wave of sunshine. It is almost religious.
There are a couple of other reasons why I try to not exceed the speed limit as well. One of the big ones is that every time I get pulled over I seem to get arrested for something that is both unknown to me at the time as well as completely unrelated to the stupid traffic stop in the first place. This has happened to me on enough occasions to make me nervous at any sight of the fuzz. The other reason is that cars hate me.
They have always hated me.
Motor vehicles are the Kryptonite of Justice Driver. No matter how smart I seem to be in other areas, when it comes to working on, or maintaining a vehicle, I have the I.Q. and reasoning powers of a fucking golf ball.
That might sound like an exaggeration for the sake of humor, but I’m dead serious. My father once told me to change some part out on our 1983 Chevy Scottsdale. I cannot recall if was a fuel pump or an alternator, but that really does not matter. The thing that does matter is that despite being unable to change the required part, I succeeded in dropping the fan into the radiator to create a nice new hole that then had to be repaired by someone else. Dad never asked me to help out with working on the cars anymore after that.
Later on I would learn that changing the oil is really, really, fucking important or your car will begin to shit and vomit out random pieces of itself as you fly down the interstate. Eventually one or two of those barfed out car parts will be something vital to the life of the vehicle and it will be the end for your car. If the car is your Dad’s, it will probably be the end for you too.
The thought might now occur to you that all of this slow-ass driving means that I lead a rather boring life (at least on the road). I can assure you that that line of reasoning would be false. Just as in many other areas of my life, driving around has produced a multitude of hair-raising tales of utter bewilderment and bullshit.
When I was a teenager, shortly before I would be issued a drivers license of my own, my parents were in a massive car accident. It was a rather severe one, resulting in my Grandmother being killed, Mom being hospitalized for months, and Dad having his skull fractured. The van that they were in was, of course, reduced to a pile of worthless scrap. On the surface it would seem that the destruction of Dad’s van would be the reason that my other uncles and aunts decided that Dad should keep Grandma’s car. Looking back on it now, I think they gave Dad the car because they were pissed at him.
Had this car been a blow-job, it would have been the kind you get from a food processor set on liquefy.
It was one of those old Chrysler four door sedans that would talk to you. Immediately, you have visions of “Knight Rider” in your head, but this car was Kit’s retarded step-brother from the projects with a negative I.Q.
The most interesting thing that the car would say was “A door is ajar.” I found this to be very odd when I was a boy, since I heard it as “A door is a jar.” Really? A fucking jar? A jar of what? A formaldehyde soaked floating fetus? A serial killer’s collection of severed dicks? Ancient canned goods? How did this get through a company meeting? It is fucking stupid. The only thing that I had kept in a jar at that point was my pet tarantula Hermey, and things did not end so well for him.
And now, the car that had baffled me in my single digit years when we visited Grandma, was now ours. It was old and cranky. It also, sadly, became one of the cars that I was allowed to drive when I turned 16. I also had a truck, but it got six miles to the gallon and even back in the mid-nineties that was a motherfucker to keep gas in. The talking car, as we all called it, was a more economical, yet pride-raping choice.
The car would do an impressive zero to sixty in almost a minute. I wish I had made the last sentence up for comic effect, but no bullshit, it would take over fifty seconds. Timing it became a running joke for my friends. You would stomp on the accelerator and floor that bitch and the car would not move. The engine would begin to make a sound that resembled “Fuuuuuuuuuuuuuck” for a good three to four seconds before changing pitch to what must have been car-speak for “Yoooooooooou” and lurching forward. A crippled snail with hemorrhoids could have outrun the talking car in the first ten seconds after depressing the gas pedal.
It was in this amazing tribute to human engineering that I saw fit to teach Austin how to drive.
Dad’s older brother lived in a small town in the panhandle of Texas. By small, I mean smaller than gnat balls. The population is less than five thousand people. This is a huge difference form Houston, where I suspect that five thousand people probably live on my block.
The back roads around Tulia seemed like the perfect place to let Austin, who was probably at best thirteen or so years of age, try to drive the talking car.
He was doing pretty well on the dirt roads and as we cruised along he turned onto a large stretch of concrete road.
Our next conversation probably went something like this:
“Go ahead and open it up, this seems to pretty smooth”
“Open it up? The car is already going its max speed of forty miles an hour?”
“Just keep it floored and wait for it.”
We did get the car up to a full sixty miles an hour or so eventually and as we did, we drove past an odd shaped building.
“Hey, that kind of looks like a small air traffic control tower.”
“You know it does, hey check it out, there are people in there pointing and waving at us. In fact, that guy seems to be particularly excited to see us.”
“Do you suppose that might be an air traffic control tower?”
“That would mean we are on a runway right?”
I am happy to say that a plane was not trying to land at that exact moment or this story might have ended differently. I decided that Austin should engage the cruise control, hop in the backseat while I slid over to the driver side of the car and that we should get the hell out of dodge before the police came looking for us.
It was one of the few times that I would have liked to speed away, but the talking car was not having it at all. Sixty was the max, which makes the talking car an even better super hero than Justice Driver.
We made it back to my Uncle Ken’s without being destroyed by planes or arrested. This I felt was a very good end to a first driving lesson.
The lingering question still haunts me to this day though. Why was there no sign or a fence? Somebody should do something about that shit.
That sounds like a job for Justice Driver.