Trask Avenue

I know you’re wondering who I am. You’re saying to yourself, “Who is Joe Mulligan and why should I read what he has to say?” Let me turn your brain light on, chief. I’m the guy you kept honking at this morning just because I switched lanes in front of you. Don’t blame me. If you were paying any attention at all you would blame the loser in front of me for driving like my grandmother. Yeah, I saw you before I forced my way in. You were just puttering along so I did what I needed. What I didn’t need was to hear your puny little toy horn honking at me. Hell, you couldn’t have been doing more than 60. What did you expect? Here’s some insight for you, Jeff Gordon: they don’t call it “rush hour” for nothing. So I cut in. I don’t have time to waste and I’m 100% sure where I going was far more important than wherever you were going. Which was probably the dollar store clutching a greasy paper bag filled with expired coupons.

I figured by the time we hit that light by the Shell station you would’ve accepted your fate like anyone in your position. But no. You were still leaning on that tinny horn. So I looked in my rearview and could tell you were calling me some pretty nasty names. I don’t read lips, but nobody’s face is naturally that red. However, I can read hand gestures. Tell me, do you touch your loved ones with those hands? Because if you do you should wash them for a solid week before ever touching anyone again. They’re filthier than a ten dollar hooker during Fleet Week.

Listen, I don’t have all day so let’s get something straight. I drive a beautiful, powerful machine. A 2012 Mercedes-Benz GL, if you even bothered noticing in between all your ranting, fist-shaking and honking. You drive some puce colored piece of crap that looks like it belongs in the bumper car ride at Six Flags, not out on the public roads. By the way, roads that I subsidize far more than you do. I mean seriously, with that car how much can you be pulling down a year? 30 tops? Maybe 40 if you somehow found someone dumb enough to pay you that much. I make that in a few months doing real work for serious people. I would explain what I do, but I’d be wasting my breath. You wouldn’t understand. Oh, and don’t give me that garbage about the 99% and the 1%. In actual benjamins I dish out far more in taxes than you do. So it’s only logical when we’re on the road at the same time I always get the right of way. Always. I pay for it.

I don’t want to be late, but now that you’ve got me started what did you think you were going to accomplish by tailgating me for ten minutes? Do you realize what would’ve happened to your tin can if I let you ram me? It would’ve shattered like Humpty Dumpty. At worst you may have possibly left a small dent or scratch on my bumper. That would have been fixed within an hour. On the other hand you would now be living your pathetic life even more pathetically. Without a car. I’m guessing you might have an old rusty three-speed bicycle with a bell and basket which could be used in case of an emergency. Then again, probably not. People who don’t understand the natural order never plan ahead. Unlike people like me. Winners.

So next time someone driving an obviously superior vehicle because they lead an obviously superior life rightfully cuts in front of you use your brain and accept it. You don’t rule the road. We do. Better yet, be grateful. If you’re not careful the person you’re raging against might decide to do something about it. You’d be surprised at the reach of our power. You could easily lose your job, assuming you have one. You think your credit rating is bad now? You have no idea how low it can go. Now go back to watching public television or volunteering for a bunch of homeless animals or doing whatever it is you do. I’ve got a table waiting at The Four Seasons.