Tailgaters

I drive a lot to and from work and all around the town. I have been in my fair share of accidents, so I drive like my Grandma Johnson now. She was famous for saying, "Oh, I thought the door was going to fall off!" I don't think that every really happened to her, but it did happen to our dog Muffy, a Pekinese (shocker, I know). We were in the parking lot at Dunn Lumber and she was on the floor of my Grandpa's truck, and all of the sudden, the door flew open and Muffy tucked and rolled onto the pavement. (Don't go calling PETA, she's already in yippy dog heaven, but as a result old age, not from becoming a doggie bowling ball.) She was fine, but my Grandma was vindicated about the door.

Anyway, I drive slowly and white knuckle it, over-compensating for the inclement road conditions by going as fast as a gimpy snail. I know it and I'm ok with it. But I'm on the freakin' freeway and I'm in the slow lane and if one more motherfucker in a BMW with those goddamn halogen lights rides my ass again, I'm going to slam so hard on my brakes that he'll be catapulted into my car and his cranium will be smashed to smithereens like one of Gallagher's watermelons. So help me.