I'm nervously gripping the wheel, embarrassed, driving very slow. Slower than an elderly woman who recently went to the bathroom. Slower than a midget trying to run in husky-sized pants. Slower than Ashton Kutcher's turn in a spelling bee. Slower than an impotent turtle fornicating with a deceased turtle.
I am ashamed of my slowness, but there's nothing I can do about it. This is the cruel morning routine of a man driving the highways to work on a spare tire.
After I got a flat tire from running over a nail last week, I spent three days driving to work on a spare while I waited for a replacement tire. I couldn't exceed 50 mph for fear of the spare tire popping. So I drove very, very slowly through rush hour traffic each morning and afternoon. Let's just say people aren't exactly pleasant to someone going 15 mph under the speed limit on one of Minneapolis' busiest highways. It's not like I had a choice. I have to get to work every day, and the highway is the only way out of Burnsville, MN.
Never mind that I was in the far right lane on a four-lane highway. I was still cut off and given the Glory Finger™ by ten drivers every five minutes. The bird, the deuce, the numero uno. Call it what you will, but it just doesn't have much effect on anyone these days. When a blue-haired old lady in a Geo Metro is driving around giving people the finger, the gesture becomes useless.
If there's one thing I've learned about drivers from this experience, it's that 90% of them are either terrified to pass people or too lazy to switch lanes to go faster. I was driving at 6am and 4pm, when traffic isn't that bad. It's an hour or so before the real rush hour sets in, so there's plenty of space to pass me on the left. But rather than pass me in the vacant lane to the left, most drivers would apparently prefer to tailgate me for three miles while slowly mouthing the word "motherfucker" over and over again until they're sure I've seen them.
On the last day, I was passed on the right by a house.
Let me repeat that. I was passed on the right by a motherfriggin' house. A semi-truck cab with a "wide load" banner passed me on the right while transporting a house. That's like an 80-year-old man stealing your girlfriend and then sending you her panties in the mail.
If your mom ever goes into some weird old lady explanation of why she refuses to drive on the highway, just say "Don't worry, mom. I know a dude who got passed by a house." She won't understand what you mean, but the statement will confuse her long enough where you can slip out the door before she starts talking again. And you won't have to worry about her jumping in her car and chasing after you, because she drives slow. She drives like me with a spare tire: just cruisin' along, receivin' the numero unos and gettin' the business.
