no destination

Dear Stupid Driver,

You want to change lanes.
You see that there is space next to me and decide to merge into my lane, into my space,
into me.

You do *not* merge into a motorcyclist.

That is a good way to lose a mirror, or gain a nice new dent in your car door.
I wish I had taken out your mirror, but you were merging into the back half of my bike.
You were, however, close enough for me to yell at you for a minute.

Did you apologize for jeopardizing my life? No.
Did you make any signals of worry or concern? No.
You kept that smug look and were annoyed that I was now blocking your path.

I'm so sorry for the momentary inconvenience. Really.
I should have let you run me off the road so that you could get to work three seconds faster.
I shouldn't have complained when you nudged my rear tire causing me to spin out and get my head run over by another car rushing by.
I should have let you crush my leg between your car and my motorcycle.

Would that have gotten you to work quicker? No, actually. The ambulance would have held up traffic, the cops would have spent time questioning you, and then the great inconvenience of having your house torched after I recovered would have just ruined your day.

So, perhaps you miserable bitch, next time you consider merging into a motorcyclist you will think twice, and decide it's just not worth the hassle.

Usually I don't do this, but George Carlin was such a major influence I feel a need to write something - if only to post an article about him.

My dad turned me on to Carlin. My pop who swore up a storm on a daily basis. My dad swore so much that his African Grey parrot knew mostly foul language. (it's a bit disconcerting to be awaken by a bird yelling, "hello shithead!")

Carlin was irreverent, he was funny, he pushed the edges.
Good for him.

here ya go