Hell on Wheels

Driving in OC, in your own words

Here I was judging you, and all you needed was a Slurpee fix, stat!


To the 45-year-old Infiniti driver, the irresponsible asshole who wrecked my parents' new car on Laguna Canyon Road last month; who made an illegal left turn; who wasn't carrying his driver's license or proof of insurance; who gave the cops false information regarding his insurance; whose insurance company shows no policy on file; who was driving a car registered in his daddy's name; who admitted to the cops that he'd been drinking—but wasn't arrested because he's a white man from Orange County who drives an Infiniti; who won't answer his phone; and who probably votes Republican because he feels people need to exercise more "personal responsibility": I look forward to seeing you run into my parents one more time —in court!


You were the guy in the white Toyota T100 pickup with the extra cab and the tinted windows that I had the unfortunate experience of driving behind through my friend's apartment complex two weeks ago. I patiently trailed behind you as you crept along at 5 mph. When the opportunity presented itself, I tried to pass you, only to have you jerk your truck over to the left to block me, causing me to almost hit you. I didn't do anything by way of response: I was stunned that you felt the need to dictate others' driving. Once you "allowed" us both to start moving again—which was, like, a full 15 seconds later—I continued to trail behind you. Then you sped off down a side street and cut back in front of me farther down the road. I slowed to get your plate number as you hung out your window, screaming, "WHAT'S YOUR F****** PROBLEM?!? WHAT'S YOUR F****** PROBLEM?!?" as if I were the one who had done something. It's pretty obvious you're the one with the "fucking problem"—a power trip, a bad mood—and saw that I was a lone female and thus an easy and safe target for your hostility. The only thing you didn't realize is that sometimes females have male family members willing to go back and take care of business on their behalf. We've already gone back to your apartment complex. We know where you park your truck. And now we know where to find it.


You were going through the toll booth on the Newport Coast Drive exit this past Sunday. I waited behind your Ford Explorer and wondered about the delay until you plopped down out of the driver's seat and waddled up to my car window. I knew when I saw you coming that you needed coins. No problem there: I use the cheap stretches of the toll road all the time and usually have plenty of quarters. The problem was having to watch you waddle back to scramble into your SUV. Your shorts were hysterically large even on your already large ass. They were slipping down with your every step. My heart was struck with fear that I might have to see what they heretofore barely covered. Fortunately, you clutched those shorts, opened your door and still kept those coins in your chubby little fist. And you got through the toll booth! Thank you. Praise the Lord. Amen.

« Previous Page