You're Making Me Hate You Read online

  Instructors and aficionados like to talk about offensive and defensive driving, the difference between maneuvering aggressively or passively. That’s all well and good, but it doesn’t really work in this day and age. We need more intelligence and awareness on the road, and you can’t keep adding choices to people who aren’t paying attention in the first place. So here’s the deal: from now on there’s only two ways to drive: offensively and offensively. Confused? Don’t be. It simply comes due to pronunciation. Look at it this way: it’s the difference between “aww-fensively” and “uhh-fensively.” The former is really the original. It’s aggressive, safe driving—knowing what your car can do and using it to its full potential. The latter is just what you imagine—coaxing your car around in a fit of dumb mumbling, “Uhhh …” So there it is. It’s either offensively or offensively. Figure it out or get out of my fucking way.

  I hate to say it, but I believe we may have reached an impregnable impasse here. The majority of the population sucks on a space-time vacuum level when it comes to operating a motor vehicle. So, as always, everyone can relax because I have the solution to our—well, my—problem. In a fit of genius, caffeine, and lack of anything good on television, I have come up with five new driving laws that, if they are implemented correctly, will solve a lot of issues out there in traffic. Now in my head these are all incredibly reasonable and in some cases necessary for the elimination of things like logjams and ridiculous fender benders. Just bear with me and hear me out before you fuckers go running to my wife or my Gram saying he’s off his meds again and somebody needs to rein me in. Besides, we all know I stopped taking those pills years ago. That’s how we got here.

  Now … the extra laws!

  New Law Number One: all cars will be equipped with new technology requiring all people to pass a simple IQ test in order to start their car.

  You read that correctly. This is akin to the car lock systems with breathalyzers. You know the ones: someone gets too many DUIs—or DWIs, depending on where you live. These shit stains talk their way out of jail time or license suspension. So the courts make them apply breathalyzers to their smart keys for their cars so the cars won’t start if they blow over the legal limit. Yeah, that seems like a great idea. Now you have streets full of drunken pedestrians instead of drunken drivers. What’s next? Chastity belts equipped with breathalyzers for unfit mothers? Not to marginalize an issue like drunk driving, but those people should spend some time in a cell, not begging their sober friend (i.e., the one on antibiotics who couldn’t drink that night anyway) to blow in their keys so they can get home. It doesn’t even occur to them to just have that sober friend drive: it’s not the booze that gets you in the end but the fucking stubbornness.

  So it’s a lot like that, but crossed with the driver’s license electronic exam. With the help of Lumosity.com, we’ll develop a key-lock in which the driver must answer at least 90 percent of the questions correctly for the key to work. The lock will have a random-question generator so it’s different every time. Much like the written test in a driving exam, if you’re not doing well and are not going to pass, the key will shut off automatically and you won’t even be allowed to finish the test. Then you can’t use your car for twenty-four hours. No, this is not another “liberal conspiracy.” No, this is not another crippling example of “health and safety gone mad.” This is to ensure that my blood pressure doesn’t go through the fucking roof when I’m picking Griff up from school. It will also make you think not only when you’re on the road but genuinely think about where you’re going and for how long. I guarantee you LA will look like a fucking ghost town when my “intelli-key” is implemented. Maybe then I can get in my car and go somewhere in less than two fucking hours that’s two miles away.

  New Law Number Two: a person must show they are able to handle a high-performance car before they can legally buy one, whether that means driving it or keeping the keys safe from young adults.

  This is for the guy in the Audi RS8 who’s grinding gears and slowing everyone down, changing lanes without looking, and stalling out at the green light because they don’t know how to drive a fucking clutch. This is also directed toward the son or daughter of someone with money driving “the family Dodge Viper” rather erratically and dangerously, going way too fast in a school zone without a care in the world because “my dad will get me out of any ticket the cops give me.” Look, some cars are hard to drive correctly. They rev high, brake low, and kick ass in ways the average wheel handler just can’t wrap their heads around. Just because you have money doesn’t mean you can drive a hyper-car. Just because you can afford the new Aston Martin Vanquish doesn’t mean you should buy one, especially if you have teenage kids. All it takes is one night away with your wife, and that same super-car has a very good chance of spending the rest of its existence rusting at the bottom of the local lake, all because “little Johnny wanted to show off for his friends and snuck it out while we were at Les Miz.” So at high-end dealerships there must be a comprehensive track where potential buyers must show beyond a shadow of a doubt that they can handle the cars they are perusing. They must also prove with physical evidence and video footage that they are in possession of a safe that has been specifically designed to keep those keys out of the hands of little big shots who could potentially abuse their hard-fought right to have that car in the first place.

  Follow-up: in order to have access to this special car, the teenager must be able to show and prove that they can pick up chicks (or dudes, to be fair) on their own, with no help from the car. Then and only then can there be an addendum placed on the service.

  Are you digging the laws? You better—I put a lot of thought and effort into these. I don’t just sit here in my pajammy-jams consumed with inane insanity for my health. But I do make it look good—especially with my plaid slippers. They tie every outfit together, like little Scottish pillows for Hugo and his friends. The slippers do leave a lot of lint in my toes. This is the price you pay for toe security. What would you rather have: little fluffs of willowy fibers or dirt and crud stuck in between your piggies? Seriously? Well, sorry if I come off all judgy, but that’s just fuckin’ weird.

  I’m wandering again.

  New Law Number Three: all cars must have tiny billboards on their roofs with the driver’s face and name on it.

  If you live in or have ever been to New York and other bigger metro cities, you will recognize in your mind the type of signage I am talking about because they adorn almost every cab and taxi on the roads in these places. If not, they are fairly triangular and usually have smeared on them some sort of ad for lawyers or nightclubs or even movie posters. So every car would have one of those, with your picture and at least your first name on it—no pertinent info or anything, just enough so we know who you are and can curse you by name instead of relying on a car horn to do a below-average job of that same thing for us. Honking my horn only says so much; I should be able to white-knuckle the steering wheel, grit my teeth, and scream out the window, “What in the name of sloppy fucks was that, Jerry?! From that lane?! Fuck!” So all cars will come with all the standard options and goodies—air con, stereo, Wi-Fi, heated seats, cruise control, mind control (wait, wha?), but now they must also have one of those tubular triangles on their roofs. Moreover, when people go to get their driver’s licenses, they will be given the placard with their name and face on it to be easily slid into place for any journey. This way, if someone borrows your car, they can put their placard in the triangle so the blame will go to them and not you. You don’t have to tell me. I know it’s genius … or devious—sometimes I can’t tell the distinction.

  New Law Number Four: from now on there are height and width restrictions on trucks.

  Yeah, you fucking heard me right. This shouldn’t even be an issue, and yet every time I’m in my car some limp-dick shit head in a monstrous F-150 with jacked-up wheels almost runs me into oncoming traffic because he doesn’t know (1) how big his stupid truck is, (2) how to drive his s
tupid truck, and (3) how to park his stupid truck, making him trawl around corners, veering into the other lanes, and almost running over pedestrians, themselves too stupid to pick up their fucking pace because “they have the right of way.” Let me tell you something: “pedestrian right of way” is a great way to get your ass run over. Get the fuckin’ lead out, St. Snailpace. Anyway, here’s the rule of thumb: if you need a ladder—not a boost or a jump, but a fucking LADDER—to get in your truck, it’s too big to drive in town. Take it to the fields or haul logs out of a fucking river. If you need to stop to catch your breath while you’re walking around your truck, it’s too big. Take it to the fields. If you’re in the other lane trying to turn and you block out not only the other traffic but also any buildings or skyscrapers that were in view until you pulled up, it’s too big. Take it to the fields. If you want to drive a big-ass truck, get a license to drive a semi and haul cargo like a real man would. Then at least you can do speed and drive all night.

  Here’s the last one. And I’m sorry, but it’s brutal.

  New Law Number Five: from now on the punishment is going to match the crime.

  I mean, let’s face it: besides jail time, what’s the most severe consequences you can expect from traffic violations? Having your license revoked is not a deterrent. Honestly, I can’t think of anyone whom that type of punishment has stopped from driving and subsequently reoffending. I know for a fact that this doesn’t work. I knew a man who had so many DUIs that they took away his license. This didn’t stop him from driving; in fact, he drove drunk more often because he didn’t seem to give a shit. They couldn’t take his license away again, so what were they going to do to him? What was the worst that could happen?

  One night he drove home from the bar so wasted he had no idea what he was doing … so much so that he didn’t realize he had run down a kid on a ten-speed bike until the cops showed up at his house the next morning. All the police had to do to find him was follow the carnage he’d left in his wake—smashed cars, destroyed mailboxes and blood trails—right back to his front door. He has now been in prison over ten years, and—I got to be honest—I hope he never gets out. This is what I mean when I say that losing your license, speeding tickets, and putting “boots” on cars are examples of why no one is discouraged from doing the things they continue to do. So sit down, shut up, and listen real close: if I ever take control, this is what you need to fear.

  In my system, if you get in too deep with the infractions, we’re taking your car, crushing it down to the size of a teacup, and giving you back a keychain. No more warnings and no more second, third, fourth, fifth, and sixth chances. You’ll also never be able to buy a car in your own name again. Your name and face goes in a database designed specifically for moving violators that all car dealers and rental centers have access to; when you try to get your hands on another car, you’re denied and a call goes out to the authorities. If you’re caught trying to get another car, you get a very stiff fine. But here’s the kicker: if we catch you behind the wheel of a car—stolen or borrowed, it doesn’t matter—it’s simple: WE TAKE YOUR RIGHT LEG.

  Not the whole leg, mind you—just from the knee down. Fuck prison, fuck revocation … we take a limb. You think that’s a steep price? A lot of families who’ve lost children or loved ones to drunk drivers, speeders, and texters might disagree with you. Now, some of you might be saying to yourself, “People who’ve lost legs can still drive,” or, “I’ll just learn to drive with my left leg.” That’s all well and good and your gusto can’t go unappreciated. But you misunderstand. If you get caught again, WE KEEP TAKING THINGS AWAY FROM YOU. Next time you’re caught we’ll take the other leg. If you get caught again, we’ll take an eye. If all of that doesn’t drive home the hard facts of the situation, we’ll take your thumbs and pinkies.

  I’m not trying to sound insensitive to people with handicaps, especially those who’ve come home from serving their country with war wounds and deeper scars than anyone can understand. I apologize if you feel this way, and I hope this explanation will show the differentials behind my reasoning. The people I’m talking about are not dealing with an outside adversity. They chose this path to their own detriment. Soldiers coming back to the world with these sorts of injuries—duty or not—were afflicted because they were bigger on the inside than the people I’m describing in this book. Soldiers deal with a trauma that most cannot imagine, and the majority of them rise above the din to live with what has happened, leaning on each other and learning to carry on. Also, I hope people who are born with disabilities can appreciate the distinction. These people have lived their whole lives dealing with it, finding an inner strength that, in my estimation, sets them above most of the human herd. The people I’m talking about have none of that.

  The ones who would suffer the most at the hands of these punishments don’t have that kind of indomitable spirit. They don’t care. If they did, they wouldn’t act the way they do, and they certainly wouldn’t look at anything I’ve said as something to learn from. They only care when it affects them, and that is exactly why I propose a severe admonishment for these people. They don’t have the kind of spirit to rise above this kind of impairment. They don’t have the kind of resourcefulness to build around something like having no legs, one eye, and six fingers left. If they did, they would have taken a cab home and come back when they sobered up. If they did, they wouldn’t have put others in danger and themselves in this particular predicament. It’s simply because they don’t care. None of the people in this chapter, as it pertains to driving, care about anyone but themselves, because traffic, when all is said and done, is about teamwork. When drivers are working together, you don’t get a lot of traffic jams. When they are not, it’s like being in a fucking video game. It’s like trying to get the highest score on the worst two hours of your life. The saddest thing is that you don’t get to put your initials on the board if and when you actually make it to your destination.

  Yeah, shit got really dark for a bit. But you forget with whom you’re talking here. I am The Great Big Mouth. I am the Infant Finite, the beginning and the end. Sure, I’m also known as the Boogie Knight, Captain Fluffy Bug, and the Ginger Ninja. In at least one city in these United States I might be recognized as Philip McCrevice or Amanda Dancewith. But never mind all that. Don’t think for a second I’m going to write a book that doesn’t try to make you laugh, cry, giggle, piss, and, most importantly, think. This is what I do. Even if the only thing this book makes you think is, “This guy is a massive tool shed …” I was successful. The worst thing you can do is leave people feeling vapid and unresponsive. Hopefully, in my head, this book might be the literary equivalent of a nine-volt battery to a pair of wet balls or nipples.

  Kids, don’t try that at home—it does leave a mark.

  I suppose I should start to merge left so I can wrap this chapter up and get off at the exit. Really, what else is there to say? My fellow “drivers” make my life a living hell. You people make me feel like I’m constantly cruising through some LARP-style version of Grand Theft Auto with none of the fun or benefits. You seem worse and worse the bigger the city gets, but it’s spreading regardless. This is not a good thing; in fact, I’m convinced that all that would be required to turn things around is a global movement to pull all your fucking heads out of all your big, fat asses. I realize this is a massive wish, one that can’t be resolved with one blow of the birthday candles. Also, if I thought there were a chance in hell of people turning it around on their own, I wouldn’t have this chapter in the book. I wouldn’t have this book, just a bunch of pictures of me high fiving people all over the world, stoked that we all have some good gray matter upstairs. Guess what? You’re never going to see that book.

  Driving is a freedom we should never take for granted. I have had so many liberating and wonderful afternoons and evenings in whatever car I’ve had, covering the miles with the radio on, sunglasses up, and visor down, watching America slide underneath my tires. But I have never let m
y attention get too far away from the fact that I am actually in control of a very big machine, one that’s capable of taking lives or tasting blood. Shit can get very real behind the wheel if you aren’t in the zone—school or speed or otherwise. Look, don’t get the wrong idea: I don’t want everyone to stop driving. I just want the dumb fucks on the road to never be allowed on the road again. That’s simple enough, right? But there’s that goddamn “freedom” thing I have to take into account. It’s a pile of shit, if you ask me. However, I will defend to the death our right to our rights. So you can see my philosophical pickle here.

  This is a very complicated problem that has one very simple solution: PAY THE Fuck ATTENTION. That’s it—end of the line and end of the list. Look where the fuck you’re going. Know what you’re doing when you take control of the vehicle. I don’t think that is too much of a stretch when it comes to requests. If you can’t do that, then you shouldn’t be able to hold a set of car keys, let alone guide a big-ass car around corners and byways. I just want you to fucking think. Your fucking smartphones aren’t smart enough to think for you. They’re only really smartphones if the person using them has an intelligence level slightly above “kumquat” on the human periodical table. So if you can’t figure out your phone, there’s no way in Gnome, Alaska, you’re going to be able to figure out how to drive a damn car correctly. Selfies on phones aren’t exactly simple, but they’re not deadly. Selfies in cars are when you “accidentally” smash your Hyundai into a telephone pole because you were texting and driving like a fuckball. Knock it off.