The Turnpike Types

Driving the NJ Turnpike every weekend for almost 2 years means I've seen almost all types of highway drivers out there.  Here are the ones that annoy me most:


THE TAILGATER- If I'm in the passing lane and haven't realized I'm not going fast enough, I can understand being tailgated.  If I'm the one trying to get a slowpoke out of the left lane, I prefer to flash the highbeams since it's safer.  But there are drivers out there who seem to tailgate for no reason at all.  It's happened to me even while on the rightmost lane.  I look in my rearview, and all I can see is another car's grille.  I have no clue as to what motivates people to drive that close behind me; maybe they're drafting to save gas, or they like to look as if they're being towed.  In any case, those situations make me wish I could install rear-facing high beams.


THE VARIABLE SPEEDER- While not the most annoying of crazy drivers, the variable speeder can be quite infuriating... and confusing.  Most times, I stick to the center lane averaging 75 to 80 mph and will eventually run into someone going about 65 or so.  Without tailgating, I switch over to the left lane in an attempt to pass them.  Once I pass, I plan on going back to the middle.

The problem is, the Variable Speeder will go faster as I try to do so.  Fine, I see they don't want to be passed; to them, passing is a personal insult, akin to having their mom called a whore.  So I'll slow down and end up driving behind them again (at a safe distance).  But if it ended there, I wouldn't be writing about them, would I?  No.  Soon after, the Variable Speeder will slow down, forcing my need to pass them once again.  But this time, I'm determined to succeed in doing so, as I don't want to play this game for the entire trip.  Pretty soon, I'm going just shy of 100 trying to get past this idiot.  Mind you, 100 is not THAT fast to some people, but I have a 128-horsepower 4-cylinder compact.  Going a hundred in that thing is kind of scary.  The thing with Variable Speeders is that I know they're not doing whatever they do purposefully.  They really just have no sense of speed and don't pay attention to other surrounding vehicles.  My guess is that once behind the wheel, they have their blinders on, and all they can see is what's straight ahead, and nowhere else.

THE SPEED ENFORCER- The Speed Enforcers are the self-righteous pricks of the highway.  They are the ones perpetually stuck in the fast lane going a steady 70 when the limit is 65.  The Speed Enforcers are relatively harmless on most occasions.  It is when the road starts to get crowded that you'll fantasize shooting them off the road with a roof mounted .50 cal machine gun.  The Speed Enforcer will not care that a huge line of angry, tailgating cars are behind them, because they believe they need to do their part to keep everyone from breaking the speed limit.  I'm sorry, Speed Enforcer, but the Turnpike cops will only pull over those who hit at least 85 or are driving as erratic as a drunk toddler.  Until then, get the fuck out of the left lane and leave the speed enforcing to them, ok?  Thanks!

THE SHOULDER RIDER aka LINE CUTTER- During rush hour, Turnpike exits are painfully slow and packed.  However frustrating it is to wait 20 minutes just to get back to local roads, there is an unspoken code that we stay in our place in line.  Unfortunately, the Line Cutter believes that the rules do not apply to them, and where they are going is way more important than where the rest of us have to be.  So here I am waiting patiently in my vehicle, when I see someone in my side view mirror riding the shoulder, blatantly cutting in line.  I've always imagined that I would see them in time for me to pull into the shoulder to block their path, making them wait with everyone else.  Unfortunately, I'm always too slow to react, or I hesitate, fearing that the Shoulder Rider is actually a cop in an unmarked car.  When they pass me and I see that it's just another impatient asshole, I chide myself for not having done anything.  I just hope that the cars up front will prevent the Line Cutter from merging in, but inevitably there will be one pussy who lets them through.

THE MULTI-TASKER- Sometimes I find cars that appear as though driven by someone who just downed three glasses of Long Island Iced Tea (always a good choice, except before driving).  I try to keep as much distance from them as possible, especially since they are obviously struggling to stay within the lines.  As I pass them, i can't help but try to see the driver and his condition.  Of course, they're not drunk, but simply preoccupied with other things.

Cell phone users are the most common, then texters, and eaters.  I also see women fixing their mascara or applying other makeup.  I've seen parents turned around to scold children in the backseat.  But the most confounding thing I have seen is someone driving with AN OPEN NOVEL against their steering wheel.  Dude.  Is the book THAT suspenseful?!  And have you not discovered audio books?!  I just don't understand this one.

THE RACERS- I hate these fuckers the most.  These dudes don't realize that the turnpike is not their own personal race track.  I don't care if anyone's going 200, I really don't; as long as they always pass on the left (a la Autobahn rules).  But the Racers are the ones who weave through traffic at high speed without caring about the lanes.  All I know is, if these guys somehow lose control and fly off into a ditch, I won't be calling 911 for them.  In fact, I'd pull over, open their door, point, laugh, then drive off.  If only...

DOMs

They call me Kitten. Sometimes, Doll. On a couple of instances, Little Lady. Yes, you'd be surprised as to how many people still use these pet names like we're still living in the 50s, which probably would've been endearing back then, but just reeks of innuendo in this day and age. There are those who try to get with the times, only to find themselves blocked outside the walls of civilization screaming, Uhhh, daaaaayuuuuum! In loving relationships, this is acceptable. In fact, a significant other throwing a "dayum" my way when I'm all dolled up (though more appreciated when I'm not) is encouraged. But we're talking about the average Neanderthal here, who at the mere sight of meat, slips backwards on the evolutionary scale and drools all over his bib, the worst of them being our overly friendly neighborhood gramps (or anybody over double our age).

Hey buddy, eyes up here, please.

Dirty old men make me shudder with disgust. I hate the whole lot of them--the kind who go, "woot woot" towards a skirt, regardless of whether it's hanging on a pair of legs or drying on a laundry wire; the kind who roar animal noises expecting proper ladies to somehow find it appealing enough to purr back; and the worst of all, the suits who justify looking for affairs with girls less than half their age with mid-life crisis. Seriously, the clubs are already crawling with desperate sleazeballs my age, we don't need an onslaught of drunken men old enough to be our fathers invading our personal space, spitting sweat and 80s pick-up lines in our faces.

As if that's not bad enough, but there's a whole mob of them who think that by watching shows like One Tree Hill, 90210 and Gossip Girl, they can pick up our generation's swagger and slang in a snap. But instead of looking up to the supposed heroes in these fictional settings, they end up taking on the stereotypical role of the idiotic frat-boy villain, suffering from a horrible case of Kiss 'n Tell.

Now, I've played Ice Queen numerous times. I know how to deter the seemingly predatory come-ons of older men. I can even let ogling with jaws dropped and passes at me slide (that is, if you get the picture at the first failed attempt). But if you sit at the next table bragging about your latest 20-something-flight-attendant conquest, your initiation into the Mile High Club, and your "tapping that sweet ass" experience, I swear I could hurl. I don't need the image of receding hairline, hairy beer gut, and sweaty, sagging ass swimming in my head.

I may not be the prettiest girl in the room, but I've had my share of cat calls, and I've been bombarded with disgustingly detailed May-December sexual rendezvous stories, and it's not flattering at all. It's not impressive coming from a guy my age. And it's not any better coming from a man who passed the height requirement at the carnival over 40 years ago. My advice: Unless you look like Richard Gere, David Duchovny or Hugh Grant, save your breath. There might not be a lot of it left lying around anyway.

The Smug Cyclist

I started working in the city this summer, and it requires a five-block walk from the train station to my building.  In my daily walking, I've started to detest a certain thing that's been infecting the city for quite some time: the smug-ass bicyclist (from here on shortened to smug cyclist).

When I'm driving, I hate pedestrians; when I'm a pedestrian, I hate drivers.  But no matter what, I will always hate you smug cyclists.

I understand, you're saving the earth from pollution and reducing your carbon footprint blah blah blah.  But you know what?  I don't live in the city and not everything is within 5 miles of where I live.  But unlike other suburbanites who need a car, I'm not driving a monstrous, gas guzzling SUV;  I drive a small, fuel-efficient car, so I'm at least doing my part.  But you don't see me being all arrogant about it.

I especially hate the smug (or clueless) cyclists who don't know what "share the road" means.  And no, it doesn't mean you can ride in the center of a single-lane road during rush hour traffic.  Yes, I realize not all of Philadelphia's streets have a dedicated bike lane.  Boo-fucking-hoo.  Find the streets that do, because when you're taking up an entire lane going 8 miles per hour with a block-long line of furious drivers behind you, the cops might let it go if someone decides to run your ass over.  Just saying.

I rarely wish harm on anyone, but cyclists bring out the worst in me.  As I see cyclists pass cars with that shit-eating grin because they feel exempt from obeying traffic laws, I imagine them running right into a parked car's opened door or their skinny wheels falling through a storm drain grating, causing them to fly over their handlebars (some of which may not have brakes, because the super-smug of smug cyclists ride on fixed-gear bikes).

And no, I don't want you on the sidewalks either.  You're just as annoying on the sidewalks as the Yuppie moms with their humongous strollers (that's a topic for another day).  I'm just trying to take a nice, quiet stroll to work (sometimes with my headphones on).  I don't need to have the shit scared out of me by some cyclist who doesn't realize the sidewalk is for walking only.  It's crowded enough with other people trying to get somewhere, I don't need some guy on two wheels making it worse.  Plus, your dirty tires could scuff my shoe, and I happen to like my shoes.  Although if scuffing my shoes causes you to crash, it would be worth it.

An Explanation

I feel as though the unadultered hatred may be a bit much for people to be confronted with. We do not hate indiscriminately. There is a method behind the madness. Here's what it really comes down to: if you suck as a person, hatred will be thrown in your direction. There could be a multitude of things wrong with you, but you will not be touched unless we are given reason to do so. You could be the fattest thing in life (LIFE!), and we wouldn't make fun of you. However, if you have a generally annoying personality, we will find reasons to hate you.

Bottom line: If you want to avoid the hatred, it's not about what anyone can possibly use to insult you, it's about you asking for it.

Let's not and say we did.

No Touching Allowed

"Let's touch base."

I hate this phrase. Why do you want to touch base with me? This is not appropriate work conversation. We just work together, we're not friends, why would I let you touch my base? It's really much too forward. I have friends that I've known for years, and they've never even seen my base, much less touched it. All these people at work keep asking to touch it. It's gross. Can't you at least try to get to know me a little bit first? Like, "Hey, how are ya? Wanna get some lunch? Wanna touch base later?" Of course, I'd say no, but at least there's an effort made.

Please stop asking to touch my base, it freaks me out.