Have you ever been tooling along in the fast lane on your way to wherever, doing a modest 5-10 over, minding your own business as you belt out the lyrics to your favorite Gwen Stefa… er… damn… uh, AC/DC, yeah, AC/DC song, when some Douche McGouche decides they really need to do five under right in front of you? And then – “Oops, sorry!” says Fate – there’s a semi in the other lane, so you’re forced – literally without choice – to tailgate that chach until he speeds up or gets out of the way. You might even have to flash your brights or turn them on permanently. Like a parent disciplining a child, you don’t enjoy it. You’ve got to do it though, or they’ll never learn that it’s wrong to poop on the carpet. The carpet is the highway in this instance.
What’s the mindset behind the tortoise in the lane clearly marked only for hares? Is it spite? Jealousy? Is it some kind of vigilante justice? Nobody likes a tightwad, so get out of my lane before I give you the car version of a wedgie. Which is, I guess… rear ending you? Or something?
I think – and this is just a theory – I think they’re just like that one Jr. Higher who unknowingly sits at the cool kids’ table at lunch. Just mosies on in to the cafeteria with his tray of tater tots and dinosaur nuggets, and… “Oh, hey, there’s an open seat! Gonna go ahead and sit at this here table with all these curiously attractive people! Mmm, these tots are scrum-diddily-umptious. A penguin with a rash?! Oh, these milk carton riddles are so wacky. Hmmm… Why is everyone at this table staring at me? I feel like I’m on fire. Is there something on my face? Is my hair messed up? Did I shart? How is it that my underwear went from resting comfortably in my pants to being pulled over my head?”
See, what that kid didn’t know was that he was not welcome at that table. It’s not a discrimination thing, it’s just an objective measurement of qualifications. You can’t go to Harvard without good grades (and an assload of money). You can’t be on Dancing With The Stars without being a washed up celebrity that no one remembers or cares about. You can’t sit at the cool kids’ table unless you’re cool. And you know what? You can’t drive in the fast lane unless you’re driving fast. It’s not complicated. You just don’t qualify. So I speak for all of us when I quote every Republican’s favorite modern lyricist, Ludacris: Move, bitch. Get out the way, get out the way bitch, get out the way.