STUPID DRIVERS!

My rant for today...



It has been said that Denver has the worst drivers in the Nation. That may be true (unless you've lived through the traffic nightmares in places like L.A. or Boston), but allow me to say this:

Denver USED to have the best drivers in America, until all the miscreants from L.A. and Boston moved HERE.

Coincidence? I think not.

If you're familiar with Denver (and the surrounding 'burbs), you know that many of the folks involved in the exodus from L.A. in the 80's (when the Mexicans took it over for good) settled in a suburb of Denver known as Westminster. It should then come as no surprise AT ALL that the very worst drivers in the Denver metro area can now be found in Westminster...These refugees from New New Mexico and their semi-retarded offspring (actually, the worst drivers in Denver can be found in the illegal-alien enclaves of Denver and Aurora, but that is a rant for another day).

Self-involved, self-serving, selfish MORONS is what these displaced Californicaters are, they who have no concept of other drivers, until they hit one, and wonder how in the heck THAT happened ("Dude! You were driving in the right-hand lane! Didn't you know that I wanted to drive over there?")

So tonight, I'm late for my son's baseball game. I need to take a left at a light that has that helpful, SAFE red arrow denying drivers to turn left even when there isn't a car coming from the other direction for MILES. No other cars in sight, except for the cop car sitting in the adjacent parking lot DARING someone to run afoul of this helpful, pointless, silly, safe, stupid little red-arrow light.

The arrow finally turns green, an occurrence as rare as a liberal conceding an obvious point, and the driver in the POS Volvo in front of me is leaning nearly into the passenger seat on his cell phone (and probably blowing his passenger simultaneously), oblivious to the monumental task in front him...That of UNDERSTANDING WHAT A GREEN FUCKING LIGHT MEANS.

I tap my horn...tap...not the eardrum-shattering-sphincter-splintering-window-exploding BLAST that I would like it to be, just the vehicular version of a polite "a-hem".

Of course, the passenger in this 1970-something piece of $#!T leans out to shout profanities, his skinny, gangly, methamphetamine emancipated, tattooed arm punctuated by the middle finger at the end of it.

I idly fantasize about pulling this little retard's stick-figure arm out by the socket and beating the driver to death with it, until I come to my senses and realize that his little methamphetamine-muscled arm probably wouldn't even leave a bruise. Also, I might get in troube with the aforementioned law.

Approximately three and a half hours later, the arrow turns green again, and the driver proceeds azzzzz slllooooowwwwwlllllyyyy azzzzzzz possssssssssssible through the intersection.

"What an @$$hole," my 12-year old son observed.

I stifle a chuckle.

"Under normal conditions," I tell my boy, "I would probably tan your hide for such language...Or at least make you listen to a long, boring lecture.

"However, in this case, you are absolutely correct."

I prepare to deliver unto my son lecture #214(b), the one that states that profanity is the language of the mentally feeble, but before I even have the chance to switch to my Ward Cleaver voice, I am cut short when this semi-retarded son of a motherless Californian butt-munch in his rusty Volvo pulls off to the right side of the road (the parking lane).

I slow down, wary, preparing to speed up should he start shooting his pistola (which he would NEVER have if we outlawed guns, after all), or, at the very least, scream profanities at me that my son hasn't heard since recess.

I accelerate, racing around the meth-headed morons.

This poopstain then proceeds to attempt a left-hand turn from the right-hand parking lane directly into my path.

Without thinking, I swerve wide to the left around him, avoiding a collision, all the while screaming profanities that would make a sailor blush.

"You told me one time," (for the record it was actually 74 times) "that profanity is the language of the mentally feeble," my chip off the old block opines matter-of-factly.

I think back to my anger-management class, specifically the part about transeferring anger onto those who don't deserve it, and my son lives to fight another day.

I look into my rearview mirror to see them cut off another driver while continuing their illegal left-hand turn, while both the passenger and driver wildly wave their middle fingers, much like a Frenchman waving the white flag of staunch resistance, and wonder to myself if it is possible to beat one punk to death using the bony stick-frame of the other.

I take a deep breath, count to ten, say the serenity prayer, and hope for a load of meth that is WAY too heavy on Drain-O to make its way into the drug chain.

"Good driving, Dad," my son comments, without the barest hint of sarcasm, thus sparing his young life.

We continue on to the game, where my young baseball pupils proceed to forget absolutely everything they had learned the night before, and lose by a score far too embarrassing to repeat on these pages.

Which brings me to my warning to the drivers of the POS Volvo: This exchange could have happened on the way home from that embarassement of a game, after I had dropped off my son, and the outcome of our little tete-a-tete could have been VASTLY different.

You were lucky . For worthless little the-best-part-of-you-ran-down-yer-daddy's-leg punks like you, luck doesn't visit very often. Cherish her when she visits, because you may not be so lucky next time.

Thanks for listening, I feel EVER so much better now.