I was sitting at a red light when I saw a teen driver on the opposite side of the intersection waiting for traffic to clear so he could make a left turn.
As he waited to turn, I couldn’t help but notice the cigarette that was dangling from left hand outside the window. Strike One.
Then as he continued to creep forward, I saw that he was looking down, then up, then down, then up. Shortly after that he raised his hand and, as you might have guessed by now, he was using it to send text messages. Strike Two.
And as if that wasn’t enough, in the middle of it all he was distracted by a young lady riding her bike on the sidewalk.
Strike Three—get your ass out of the car and sit down for your tongue-lashing.
Look here, you fucking twat waffle. Have we learned nothing about the dangers of texting while driving? I know that at 18 you think you’re fucking invincible and that you’re never going to die, but guess what? Shit happens—really bad shit happens and one day, whether through your own fault, at the hands of another or just nature taking its course, you will die.
I sincerely hope that one day, just for the sake of karma, you’re rear-ended by one of your high school cronies that was texting one of their friends. If that’s what it takes for all of you to learn your lesson, then so be it. Hell, this goes for adults, too.
In the event that the aforementioned scenario never takes place, what schools need today is a new version of Scared Straight! or an updated, even more graphic [and high definition] version of Red Asphalt (WARNING: cheesy but you’ll see some brain soup) to teach these little shitheads the importance of paying fucking attention while driving. This goes for you too, Maria Shriver, because cutesy little dioramas featuring the school’s best thespians fall short telling the real stories.
I may be coming off like an ass here but I take such a stand because I’ve got a family to look after and with a road filled with assholes such as yourself not paying attention to how they are driving, within seconds my house could be home to a widow and orphan—and not the typesetting kind.
Ahem. That’s all I got. Oh, except for a quick note to that other teenager who, following the rules of the road, rode his bike past me before I made a right turn onto my street.
I’ve got nothing against your cycling skills, kid, but you sure as shit could use a haircut because you looked like one of these idiots.
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