I know you probably won't believe this, but you and I have a lot in common. I, too, love the thrill of flying down the road. It's the feel of the car as it smoothly corners round the curve, the wind flowing through my hair, the stereo pumping Van Halen's "Panama" (shout out to Todd M.!)....these are things I know we could agree on if we were to meet.
You should also probably know that I like to call the police. No, make that LOVE to call the police. I've curbed that urge a little since my husband told me the dispatchers in the three main counties I regularly call to probably have my phone number posted and throw darts at it. I believe it is my duty to assist the local law enforcement since they are strapped for personnel. So far, I've resisted the strong and almost overwhelming need to call about you.
See, that black Ford Mustang you've got is okay, I'll admit. You've dressed it up a little, what with the hood scoop and all. Granted, it is the newer body style, so that's good for ya. I can't see through your (illegally) tinted windows, but I bet you have the racing speedometer and other gadgets that conjure up dreams of Jeff Gordon back in the day. You may also be hoarding a dead body or having sex while your driving past me, but those windows hide your true identity.
Let's talk about your morning drive, okay? You normally ride up on my ass right past the Interstate at about 7:23. Once you realize I have Fraternal Order of Police tags (cause I married the po-po), you slack off for a minute. Ah, yes, but then you remember who you are: Bad ass mustang man! Then you pass me at about roughly 80 miles an hour. Even this is only slightly annoying. What sticks in my craw is you pass me on double yellow lines, pass me when other cars are coming, and generally endanger my life on a daily basis. You are a prick, generally, when it comes to driving.
I know those parachute pants your wearing are probably a little snug, and your Members Only jacket makes you feel the need, the need for speed. You may not be seeing those oncoming cars through your aviator sunglasses and (illegally) tinted windows, but trust me, they are there.
So, I send this to you so that you may have a little warning...I now have the direct numbers of the three counties we drive through on our morning bonding time. That means no pause to explain to 911 what my emergency is. It will just be me and the police dispatcher discussing how they can catch you. It will be me telling them the exact mile-marker we just passed. I thought about wishing you would wrap that jacked-up discount model around a guardrail, but I figured it'd be better for you to have several hundred dollars worth of tickets and multiple points on your license. That'd be so much better.
Thanks so much for slowing down for the sweet soccer mom in her SUV...and, if not, I'll wave as I pass by when the police pull your punk-ass over.
Soccer Mom (and general Bitch)