An Open Letter to Every Driver I Encountered On My Way Home Today:

Dear Every Driver:

It's rare that I get dismissed from work at 5:00 p.m. Unheard of, really. It was like fuckin' Christmas in August, and you bet your sweet ass I wanted to be Larry Leadfoot on my drive home, regardless of whatever squalls were going on. Fay-Schmay.

Enter you.

Preventing me from making my way home quickly.

I get that you're not used to driving a vehicle that's not a draycart, and I understand that you're comfortable driving at speeds of 10 miles per hour.

But here's the thing: I'm not. And we have these things in America called "lanes" varying from slowest (the right) where you belong, to fastest (left) where I belong, and where you definitely do not belong.

Yes, it's rainy. Yes, it's puddly. Yeah, it's a goddamn tropical storm, and yes, I could hydroplane into a palm tree and die, but that's my fuckin' prerogative, and anyway, it's not going to happen.

You don't belong in the left lane, with your flashers on, if you're going 10 miles an hour. You don't belong there if you're going 40 miles per hour. I'll put it to you this way: if your flashers are on, you don't deserve to be in the left lane, EVER.

So get the fuck off the roads, and if you must be on the roads, get the fuck out of my way, and most certainly, stop going the exact same speed as the two other jerks in the center and right lanes. If it were up to me, I would confiscate each and every one of your licenses and your automobiles, and who knows? When I'm president of the World, I just may do that.

In the interim, you have no business being on the roads when it's rainy -- you're a hazard, and I hope you burn in Hell. Idiots.

With love,

SuperBee.