And now, I tell a story.

(What, me? Tell a story? How NOVEL!)

This is a story about traffic. It's partly a story about how much I hate traffic, and partly a story about how much I FUCKING HATE ATLANTA TRAFFIC HOLY SHIT. And then it changes tone as I learn a lesson about life and living with other people on the road.

First, the part about how much I hate traffic:


Oh my lord, do I ever hate traffic.


There. That was the part about how much I hate traffic. Now, onto the Atlanta bit.


But more than traffic, I really, really, really, really, REALLY fucking hate Atlanta traffic. There is no worse traffic on Earth. And yes, I've driven in both New York and Rome (Italy, not Georgia... Rome, Georgia's traffic is mostly slow and laid back, as all the drivers are usually riding around with their heels on the dash and a pocket knife in their hand as they kick back and whittle some) - and let me tell you, I'd much prefer no lines painted on an "8 lane" road and people swerving around to Atlanta traffic, where they not only swerve around, but feel it is their God-given right to do so, meaning that if you flip someone off for cutting in front of you hastily, they will SHOOT YOU IN THE HEAD AND/OR TORSO WITH A GUN THAT FIRES BULLETS. And not, like, potato bullets or banana bullets or Jolly Rancher bullets (which, frankly, would rock - there would be this moment of stinging pain as the Jolly Rancher hits your cheek and sends ripples across your facial skin, followed by the sweet succulant joy of delicious Cherry hard-candy goodness).

No. Real bullets that hurt you and make you bleed. All for calling them out and forcing them to reckon with the hurt of their injustice by flipping them off. Bastards.


So there, that's the part about how much I FUCKING HATE ATLANTA TRAFFIC HOLY SHIT. And now, on to the lesson about life and living with traffic and yadda yadda. Ready?


But today, something very interesting happened to me on the way into my little shared office thingy that I share (and is an office). I was headed east on I-20, tooling along at a cool, calm 85 miles an hour (which is about 30 more than the law says you should travel at on I-20 at that particular stretch of highway) when a white truck, not unlike mine, pulled from the right lane into the lane just adjacent.

My lane.

And he was doing 65 miles an hour. IN ATLANTA!

Now, we all know this is a crime (not the pulling-in-front thing, the 65 miles an hour in ATLANTA thing). You simply don't do that. And you DEFINITELY don't do that when you pull in front of someone. It's a good way to get yourself shot (and not with Jolly Ranchers, as we've previously discussed).

So I begin to roll down my window so that I can extend my left arm and share with him the standard, universal hand signal that indicates that he cut me off and, while I wasn't quite ready to crawl out of the window, stand on the hood of my truck and leap over to his so that I could gut him like a festival hog, I certainly didn't appreciate it, when I spied with my little eye something blue and white and flesh-colored, holding a laser speed gun.

This man had just saved me from a MINIMUM $300.00 ticket.

As we passed the cop, he pulled back over into the right-hand lane (which, I might add, had not a single car in it - it was evident to me that this guy got in my lane not to pass any vehicles or avoid any obstructions, but simply to slow me down). He slowed to about 55 MPH and looked over at me with a smile. I saw in his right hand a black device with a spiraled cord connected to it, which I presumed to be a radar detector.

I couldn't help but wave and nod in thanks.


And thus, we have reached the end of my little story. But no story is complete without some sort of "Sixth Sense" twist at the end, so here's the "gotcha" part:




Thank you, and have a pleasant rest of your day.