mr. tailgater guy: i hate you!

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Dear Mr. Tailgater Guy:

First of all, let me preface this by saying how well I understand that where ever you are going is always going to be more important than where I am going. I understand that the world revolves around you, and that me and my puny vehicle, while still traveling at five miles over the speed limit, are still traveling far too slowly for your fast-lane ass. I understand that car lengths are so difficult to judge at high speeds, and that a half a car length is ALMOST the same as three – who can blame you for not being able to tell the difference? Especially when you were out getting your pud yanked by your bucktoothed, knock-kneed, crosseyed girlfriend on the day they covered that in driver’s ed.

I’d just like to say, thank you. Thank you for giving me the motivation to make sure my brakes are always in tip top shape, on the off chance that someday I’ll be able to test how well your plastic front bumper handles a collision with the back end of the Jeep. Thank you for teaching me that it’s really okay to wave my middle finger out the window as you speed past. I’ve found that it is a marvelous method of relieving tension.

Whatever would I do without you, Mr. Asshole-Tailgater-Guy? It’s you that affords me the opportunity to relieve the boredom of my home to airport commute by watching you get pulled over by the friendly state trooper that you blew past because you were so obsessed with passing me at warp speed as soon as I gave you the opportunity.

Are you wondering why, just when you approach, I’m suddenly slowing down? It’s because I’m trying to give you the easiest opportunity to set up camp in my tailpipe. I have to wonder if you can actually get high on the exhaust. Someday when you’re sitting at the side of the road because you just slammed into someone because you were following too closely, I will have to ask.

In closing, I’d just like to remind you that just because I am a girl, you should by no means assume that I won’t brace myself for collision, slam on my brakes, march over to you and yank your yuppie ass right out of your expensive Beemer/Jaguar/Mercedes/Miscellaneous-Piece-Of-Shit. I will not hesitate to whip you like the dog you are. Use the brains that your misbegotten mother (hopefully) gave you…and BACK THE FUCK OFF.

Before I get upset.

Thank you,


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