Road Rager

DISCLAIMER: The views expressed in this blog entry do not necessarily relfect those of the writer, and are the sole opinions of the fictional character from which they may have come. Although the writer IS a Boston driver, he’s really very courteous and obeys all traffic laws.

The Boston Driver’s sentiments:
I am a Boston driver. I’m in a hurry. I have somewhere I need to be, and frankly, you’re in my way. If you can’t see over the steering wheel, you have no business being on the road, let alone the left lane. If all I see through your rear window is blue hair and knuckles on the steering wheel, I get homocidal.

I’m not interested in the speed limit. I’m not interested in your political views, your honor student, your nationality flag sticker, your peace slogans, or your clever little sayings, so get your bumper out of my face.

I’m not interested in your displeasure about me tailgating. If you’re in my way, I will be letting you know by obscuring my headlights from your mirrors by driving up your tailpipe. You will think I’m using your rear view mirror to check if I have something in my teeth.

Move over so I can pass. I don’t care what you do after that. Get behind me and flash your high beams if it makes you feel better. Don’t bother flipping me off, because I don’t care. I also won’t hear your horn because my music is louder.

I change lanes at the drop of a hat. If your lane is moving faster than mine, you can bet I’ll be changing. I don’t care if I cut you off, that’s your fault for leaving me room. I don’t use my blinkers. I know there’s a chance you’re a Boston driver too, and letting you know what I’m going to do only gives you a chance to speed up and not let me in. I know, because I do it to you.

Pedestrians have no rights. Crosswalks are a farce. Yes, you have the right of way. You’re also dead. I happen to know that’s not a risk you’re willing to take. I will not stop for you. I will continue to go as close to you as possible without hitting you. Watch out for my mirrors.

I will double park. I will block your drive way. I will move your road cones. I will pass you in the breakdown lane. I will slow down if you tailgate me. I will box you in if you try to pass. I will find a way to get back in front of you if you cut me off.

You other drivers don’t understand. I’m not in traffic with you. You’re in traffic with me. I am a Boston Driver, and I’m more important than you.

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Boys (and most men) will be boys.

Those of you who are, were, or have male kids know that the typical boy has a rather warped sense of humor and fun. Some things are funny to boys that overshadow just about any other sort of humor.

Boys will laugh about anything that smells bad, for example, particularly if whatever it is that smells bad is or was organic. The more closely related to his own biology, the funnier the boy will find it.

I remember many an hour of my youth spent in hysterics over the gasses my cousin and I could produce. It got to the point where if we were in a group of people and one of us compromised atmospheric integrity, we were able to tell whether it was one of ours or something foreign. If someone tried to blame one of us, we’d know whether or not they were lying.

We got pretty devious about things for a while there. It became very easy for us to find our way into a crowded area before deploying. By the time people were laying blame, we were long gone, and no one was the wiser. That was called the “Drag and Drop”.

Probably the most memorable time for me was on the way home from a seminar (Yeah, I was quite a bit older at that point.) and a group of us was leaving. I tried to separate myself from the group, but just as I was decompressing, the elevator showed up and I had to jump on. And it was packed, and hot. It was five or six floors of total silence and thick disgust. The only sound that could be heard was me trying not to erupt in laughter.

Getting off the elevator, I realized the poor fellow behind me was in a wheelchair and right at trap-door level, only mere inches from my trembling-with-stifled-laughter stanky arse. That poor man deserves a medal.

If you find yourself wishing your particular male adolescent would find something else amusing other than asphyxiating you, you may be relieved to hear there are things that a boy will find even funnier.

There’s a reason slapstick is so popular, you see. A boy will always laugh when someone gets hurt. The closer related the injured person is, the harder he will laugh. Mt. Rushmore could have probably acceptably been carved into Larry, Curley, Moe and Chemp.

My cousin and I were pretty good friends, and together almost all of the time back then. One day I was doing the dishes, or at least, cleaning the coffee pot, as I’d had quite the coffee habit by then. It was an electric percolator. You’d put the coffee in the basket inside with the water and plug it in. Ten minutes later, you’d have coffee.

Maybe it’s because I wasn’t schooled in the ways of electricity, or perhaps I was, but because I hadn’t had my coffee yet, I didn’t think about it, but I rinsed the thing off, set it down on the counter and plugged it in. It began perking away.

I reached into the dishpan and removed my mug, intending to clean it. One hand in the dishpan, I put my other hand down on the counter, and BZZZZT!!

I dropped my mug and a recoiled from the coffee pot. I looked at it for a moment, and put 2 and 2 together. Once I understood what was going on… I did it again.

and again. I laughed and did it a fourth time, this time making noises like I was totally frying.

I splashed a little more water on the cord, and took a deep breath. I was going for gold this time. I stuck one hand in the dishpan, and grabbed the pot with my whole hand and held on like I was dangling from a helicopter. The lights dimmed a bit.

Getting back to what I was talking about before, regarding friends getting hurt being funny, I called my cousin into the kitchen, and pretended to be busy with something. I told him the coffee was almost done, if he wanted to wash his mug, which I made sure was dirty. As soon as he reached into the dishpan, I grabbed him by the throat and shocked the bajesus out of him.

He swung his arms a bit, and broke the connection. I was laughing so hard I couldn’t answer his demands of “What the hell was that!?”

After a few minutes I showed him what was going on, and we both had a good laugh. We added more water and made all kinds of experiments out of the materials we had at hand. Sponges, spoons, tin foil and so on.

While I know we were quite a pair, I’m sure we weren’t alone in our stupidity-based fun. What did you do as a kid?