Dear Man In The Volvo Behind Me

Dear Man In The Volvo Behind Me,

I'm going to be honest with you, but I don't think you're going to like it.

I sort of cut you off when I merged on to the highway. If you took it personally, I'm sincerely not sorry.

You looked (in the brief seconds I got to observe your curmudgeonly face) to me like the type of person that would be offended, maybe even angry, about this apologetic apathy. Perhaps you'd like an explanation of why I feel no remorse about my actions, and I will give one to you.

You are an asshole.  You are also stupid.  (I even gave you an extra reason, in case you were to object.)

I'm sure your wife (girlfriend?) in the passenger seat would agree with my assumptions, because:

a) You were flailing your arms around like a three-year-old who had to sit out of recess after biting a classmate on the finger, and it seemed like that rage was directed toward her.  Did she forget to pack your lunch?  Maybe you were expecting a salad, and you got leftovers.  Did she change the radio station from Yo Yo Ma to Journey, infuriating you to no end? Are you deaf? Wait-- I've got it.  Maybe she cheated on you?  If that was the case, I'm not sorry again-- I'm positive your beard gets in the way of your performance.  I know all too well the distraction of facial hair.  Because I can't think of any other reason for you to wave your pudgy fingers around and pretend you're more of a man than you are, I'm just chalking it up to the fact that you're an asshole.

b) She knows, like everyone else in this fucking world, that when you are on the highway and there is a merge lane to your right, you should generally be aware of the traffic coming forth.  And, as a rule of thumb, you should alternate with the cars in the merge lane to become one synonymous lane of flowing, rush-hour traffic.  I am assuming you know the definitions of both alternate and synonymous--a dangerous assumption, indeed-- and that you simply chose to disobey the general rules of driving vehicles because you were trying to get home for re-runs of Swamp People. Which, of course, makes you stupid.  Not because you like the show (God bless those crazy men), but because you're a slave to television, and that dependence clearly hinders your ability to make intelligent decisions on a busy highway.

c)  Because we have established that you are undoubtedly an asshole who happens to also be stupid, let's talk about the fact that you seemed to be upset with me when I had no other choice but to cut you off-- so as to not kiss the guard rail.  My fault?  Eat shit.  Perhaps if you hadn't missed therapy this week, you'd have been much more rational about the whole thing, understood that it was I (I!) who was fearful of death, of never binge watching Breaking Bad a second time, of never letting Ben & Jerry's Half Baked melt on my tongue again, because you nearly caused me to bump uglies with the highway shoulder. Too busy bursting bubbles of hot air at the windshield instead of paying attention to me in your side view mirror, you believed me to be at fault as I pinched you out of your lane.  I had just come from professional development at my school, which was frightening enough.  And then you dared to pause your irrational tirade in order to flip me off?  Why don't you do me a favor, and go swallow a knife.

I realize I don't know your name.  Please realize I could give a rat's ass.  I bet your mother (who must have been a saint), named you something royal like Charles or Darby in an effort to give you a false sense of self.  She could smell your insecurity when you emerged from her womb. While I'm certain that you do have a name that may or may not be Arthur, I am going to continue referring to you as the Man In the Volvo Behind Me, because, quite frankly, you don't deserve a name.

Do I have road rage?  Is Steve Perry one of the greatest voices in the last fifty years?

Yes.  Yes.

I'm not going to end this letter to you, Man In the Volvo Behind Me, by pretending this letter was some form of catharsis, and that I will quickly forget the fact that you are a stupid asshole. Instead, I'm going to hope that (though I will never know the truth) your wife's breaking point was your quivering gray beard and gaping pie hole screaming at her for no reason on a beautiful, sunny Spring day.  I hope that you got home, ate dinner, and watched your evening shows.  I hope you at least jerked off to relieve some of the tension that clearly runs rampant in your veins.  I hope that some time in the early morning tomorrow, maybe 2:47 am, that you wake up to go to the bathroom and realize that your wife isn't there, next to your rank and rageful ass in your cheap bed sheets. Fuck you, and your Volvo.

Wife of Man In the Volvo Behind Me, call up the man you left when you were 25 in order to be with your soon-to-be ex-husband William.  I bet he is single, I bet his name is probably something like Tony or Chad, and I bet the only expletives he uses are when he is performing in a top-notch manner in the bedroom.

He also probably has no beard.

To traffic collaboration,

Lindsay