Saturday, September 15, 2007


I have a love-hate relationship with my mom's car. I love it because it's one of the greatest driving experiences I've ever had. It's really the driving equivalent of sex. Faster...faster...FASTER...yes, Oh God, YES!

But I hate it because it's basically impossible not to speed in it. How am I supposed to go 35 mph in this thing? If these boots were made for walking, this car was made for speeding. It's particularly difficult in Ann Arbor, which, according to, has more speedtraps per person than any other city in America. You know what I like about speedtraps? They're essentially a place where everybody agrees the speed limit is too low, EXCEPT for the police. That's what they are. A significant percentage of people drive faster than the assigned speed, so much so that this becomes well-known. And yet The Powers That Be remain intransigent in their belief that 40 mph is too fast.

But the best part about my mom's car is it turns me into such an elitist prick. Whenever someone flicks me off I just smile and smugly think to myself, "Whatever, poor person. Maybe if you possessed a skill society deemed worthy of financial reward, I would give a shit what you think. But judging by the quality of your car, you don't. So why don't you just slink back to your hovel and eat your gruel before I pull over and kick you in the face?"


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