So anyone who knows me really well knows how much I love Oklahoma drivers.
Almost as much as I love Fox News, yeast infections, Rush Limbaugh, mammograms, Sarah Palin, food poisoning, and The Notebook. Not necessarily in that order.
Oklahoma drivers know two speeds: Nascar and snail.
The preference of the driver I am preparing to pull out in front of can be tricky to detect at times. The driver could be all Nascar, all snail, Nascar realizing they no longer want to be Nascar and slow down to snail or vice versa. It's tough to predict. All I know is that anyone with the number 3 plastered to their car is someone to be avoided at all costs. They're crazy as hell.
I left work today at straight up 5:00 as usual and attempted to pull out in front of what I thought was a snail but turned out to be a number 3 Nascar. Now when I turn out, I floor that shit. I don't mosey along at a 30 mph pace. Regardless (or irregardless as my very sweet but clueless friend likes to say at least 15 times per day. Someone seriously needs to tell her that isn't a word and adding the additional syllable does not make her sound more intelligent. It simply makes her sound more idiotic. I should say something. But how do you do that tactfully? "Bitch, please. That is not a word, and if you say irregardless one more time, I'm going to cut you." I should probably have someone else tell her.)
Anyhow, this bitch flies up my ass like a dog in heat. She was like 4 blocks away less than a second ago. So I'm pissed and going only as fast as the snail in front of me will allow me while her car proceeds to make-out with the rear bumper of my car. Three blocks later, after a slew of profanity and suppressed gesturing on my part, we are required to stop for the stop light. Because it's red. Which, I'm told, means stop.
I decide it's time to put on my pissed off face and glare at her in the rearview mirror. Her and her mardi gras beads and lei and mountain pine air freshener dangling distractingly from her mirror.
So I glare. And what the hell am I witnessing?
This hag is yacking on her cell phone and PLUCKING HER CHIN HAIRS! No shit. She starts with her chin, and now I'm intrigued and can't look away. It's like crack for the road rager. She's plucking her chin and then she starts plucking her NECK. While talking on her cell phone. After she almost ran up my ass.
I decide to take pity on her. I mean, damn. If I had a beard, I'd totally be speeding up people's asses so I could at least play the testosterone part I had been cursed with.
I'm not really sure what my point is. Perhaps that I hate Oklahoma drivers. Perhaps that I particularly hate hormonally imbalanced bitches with chin and neck hairs who fly up my ass, refuse to make eye contact with me, and pluck said hairs for everyone to see. Ew. No one wants to watch that, bearded lady.
*sigh* I'm going to hell. Tomorrow, I'm taking the bus... which is basically hell. I'll consider it practice.