Letter to an Asshole Driver

Dear Asshole Driver,

            I don’t know you, I really don’t. In fact, the only things I do know about you are the color of your car and how you drive like an asshole. So I apologize, in advance, if I’m making any false assumptions.

            Look, roads are public places. Every driver has an individual responsibility to make sure that his vehicle remains safe, and under control. We must share the asphalt with one another, as cordial members of society. For some reason, you feel like you’re exempt from this universal understanding. You find no moral or otherwise logical conflict with completely disregarding the laws of traffic and commuter code, and that bothers me. Why should I have to wait at the end of the line to get onto 695 when you casually cruise by on the shoulder and bully your way in at the last second? Why should I have to signal every time I change lanes when you thread in and out of traffic without warning?

In case there was any confusion on your end, it’s not cool to drive like a douchebag. I’ve never thought to myself after being aggressively cut off, “I think I wanna know that guy.” It’s overcast, take your fuckin’ sunglasses off. And look, your license plate spells something. That’s crazy, did someone else get that made for you? No? Then you’re just a twat. Of course tinted windows are a given; you can’t possibly let anyone actually see your face! What if they run into you at the grocery store? Then again, you’re probably used to getting kicked in the balls by this point. Seriously, no one cares that your parking spot will get taken if you don’t make it to work on time. We all have places to be. You’re not special, you’re just a prick. And, yeah, most of us have actually heard music before. Don’t feel pressured to have the volume so high that I can tell you’re listening to Linkin Park from four cars back.

But enough criticism. I’m here to make you aware of yourself but also to help you improve as a person. Is ADS (asshole driving syndrome) a genetic deficiency? Is it hereditary? It very well may be, but you can fight the symptoms. First you have to trade in that glossy new Chevy Camaro for a fuel-efficient Toyota. Sorry, I know it looks like Bumblebee from the Transformer movies, but it’s gotta go. Next you need to accept that your wife is the best you could have possibly done. Really, you’re lucky she married you. Try eel, it’s a natural aphrodisiac. I know your brother makes more money than you, but you chose a major you were passionate about, and that’s all that counts. Try and make a friend. Maybe after you find one, you might be able to find another.

Drink tea and do easy- or medium-level word problems to stave off the effects of road rage. But don’t fuck with Sudoku, because that gets me extremely agitated. Plant an herb garden or help your kids with a school project. Help bees pollinate flowers. Help the trash men lift your trashcans in the morning. Help the girl scouts in your neighborhood sell cookies (don’t be creepy about it). Help ants not fall victim to sadistic children with magnifying glasses. Help the saplings in your backyard compete for sunlight monopoly. Help your friend compete for a real estate monopoly. Help your Danish immigrant neighbor find an adequate pastry shop. Help your mom with her insulin shots. Help the local mafia compensate for their poor investments. And help yourself, by not being an asshole driver.

Sincerely,

Guy you cut off