For the slow driver: What is it, exactly, about the left lane that you find so irresistible? Does it fit your image better than your speed? Will your dick fall off if you ride in the right lane as the rest of the slow drivers? Did you lose a bet? Are they giving out candy?
For the obsessive lane-changer: We’re doing a do-si-do! Aw. Wait. Now another. And another. No — I did not consent to folk dancing. Stop it. Wait. Why is this happening? Around and around and around.
For the tailgater: Did you notice I’m going 15 miles per hour over the speed limit and passing a truck? Yes? Why are you so close? Are we — oh god you’re mounting me, aren’t you? You’re trying to make Volvo/Chrysler babies? Sorry; I’m queer, and so is my car. Really; I’m not for you. No no no.
For the people at rest stops: Why do you stare at disabled people like we are covered in flashing lights and poo? Are we really the first ones you’ve ever seen? You’re at a rest stop, so presumably telling you to get out more and see the world is moot. Enjoy your spiritual/cultural quest, I guess!
For the stealth rider: I couldn’t help but not notice, for miles and miles and miles and miles and miles, that you were cruising along directly in my blind spot. I mean, until I nearly killed us all. Do you have a death wish? Are you just pathologically thoughtless? Are you a secret agent? You’re a secret agent, aren’t you?
Oh my god after I nearly killed you, you zoomed up to coast for miles in someone else’s blind spot. I think you are just evil.
For the perennially timid: What is it, exactly, that is so scary about passing a truck that makes it MORE terrifying that driving along exactly in its splashback, completely blinded, pacing them mile for mile?
For Duluth: Why is it always raining when I approach you or recede from you? I confess I blame you for this, you beautiful impervious city by the lake. Is it fair to do this?
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