You're Making Me Hate You (14 page)

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 my 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.

I suffer from an almost debilitating form of road rage because I am hyper-aware and totally in tune with what’s going on around me. This might be because I’m a psycho control freak who needs people to do what he wants at all times (because
that’s
been going so well for me so far). But it might also be because people aren’t doing what they’re supposed to be doing, which is driving. You’re in a car: DRIVE IT. You’re in a truck: DRIVE IT. You’re on a bus: you probably lost your license because you didn’t DRIVE IT. I’m not an asshole; it just makes me angry when I’m always right and no one else is. When I see some cunt smearing her Maybelline on while she’s driving with her knees instead of pulling over like a responsible human being (or doing her makeup before she leaves her fucking house), I want to sideswipe her car so hard she goes plummeting over a mountain somewhere. When I watch a giant cock in his giant Dodge driving around like he’s King Prick of Pussy Hill, not aware that he almost ran over children and dogs for the past twelve miles, I want to get a rope, climb to the top of his truck cab, and piss in his eye sockets for being a colossal cum stain, undeserving of a license or the paycheck it takes to keep that monster filled with gas.

Only a handful of things on this planet make me angrier than shitty drivers, but it’s most likely the most innocuous of anything on that list. The other stuff is pretty serious shit: bullying, child abuse, murder, racism, and so forth. So bad driving is definitely at the bottom of the maniacal food chain for me. But it’s still on the chain. It’s still on the hook. It pisses me the fuck off. And—wait for it … —it’s making me hate you all. I don’t like that feeling—I don’t really want to hate anybody. Sure, there are people I’m always going to hate, but
everybody
? Even this Ginger Ninja likes having friends. So I guess I’m just asking everyone to be better drivers so I can have more friends. If that makes any sense to anyone, maybe you need more help than I do—at least I
know
I’m a fucking head case. But I’m the one with a book deal.

So it’s this simple: if you see me in my car, remind yourself that I am armed with a loaded vehicle. As soon as you see my eyes swing your way, pull up your mental checklist. Examine your speed and be aware of the cars and trucks around you. Get off of your phone and stop eating or anything else that could distract from your ability to manage your driving experience. Take care to realize that some cars out there have precious cargo like children or PS4s. Say to yourselves, “Maybe I should get my head in the game a little stronger—I would hate for that carload of children to not get home safely, making them unable to play on those precious PS4s.” The best remedy to help you avoid collisions and accidents is cognizance. Basically speaking, if you want to keep your car from getting banged up anymore than it already is, keep your eyes on the road. Keep your focus on the flow of traffic. If you need to be somewhere at a certain time, make sure you’ve given yourself some leeway to get there accordingly, taking into account travel length and rush-hour clogs. I’m not saying you shouldn’t enjoy your drive; what I am
saying is that other drivers are trying to enjoy their drives as well. Do
not
make it someone else’s responsibility to pay attention for
you
. It’s
your
car—do the driving.

Oh, and one more fucking thing …

USE YOUR FuckING TURN SIGNAL.

I HAVE IT
on good authority that a very well-known rock star, one of those icons people either figure out or flock to unnecessarily, has a rather disturbing addiction. It’s a monkey that will break the back of any blue blood if allowed to flourish, but the thing is you can totally tell when the excess itself is excessive because it becomes apparent on the face and body. Yes, friends and enemies, this rock god’s horrible secret is a Taco Bell habit, one that sings to the tune of more than $35 … A NIGHT. That’s the cost just for personal use. Thirty-five bucks? Jesus skates, that’s insane! The saddest piece to this resistance is it
does
show. There’s no hiding a fast-food propensity, no matter how big the T-shirts get or the circumference of the waistband on your stretchy jeans. As much as I’d like to divulge who it is, I shouldn’t throw stones because my own consumption of grease and bacon hasn’t gone unnoticed over the years. So I’ll just say to my peer, “Yo … easy on the Good to Go, buzz.”

But, what a shock—this is a problem all over the world. Anyone who thinks this is a purely American affliction doesn’t get out much. Human beings might just be the biggest they’ve ever been in history. Oh, by the way: not everyone can claim to be “big-boned.” If you’re all so big-boned, why is all that weight putting so much strain on the ligaments and tendons? If your bones were big, you’d assume that all your insides were big too. No one should feasibly be able to ride one of those rascals if they were “big-boned.” I don’t know how you can afford one of those scooters in the first place when your daily food budget is hundreds of dollars … just so you can feel “full.”

Sorry, I’m miles off course here.

It’s not the food I want to talk about—it’s the money. Funny how a world that has been in the fluctuating grips of either depression or recession can still find the funds to waste on needless bullshit. From Oreos stuffed with cookie dough to shoes with wheels in the heels, we will find a way to make something pointless a thing of absolute value. I thought our propensity for ingenuity was gone, but I was wrong. We just took that creative imagination and applied it to the frivolous and then made sure we attached a hefty price tag to the fucker. I don’t know whether it’s a necessary distraction from the real issues of the world. I don’t know whether it’s because we’re all so numb that we only feel innovative when it comes to the trivial. But I will tell you this: the balance is out of whack in a major way. The cats are out of the designer bag, and if you want them, you have to pay.

I have to hand it to the American business culture: you have got this country full of tool bags sorted out. How else can you explain the success of such
much-needed
accessories as the Buffalo Nickel Collection from the Franklin Mint? I can understand the Snuggie, but this shit is ridiculous. Better or worse still are
the plate collections—I don’t know whether they still sell them, but they did when I was a kid, so if it was good enough then, I have to assume they still do. It’s kind of a glorious thought, really: when the world is dead and we’re all gone, visitors from other planets will come here, sift through the wreckage, and find strange dishware covered in what they will misunderstand as our leaders: Scarlett O’Hara and Captain James T. Kirk.