Look, kids, if you're going to go to the drive-up mailbox,
and stopping to dump letters in there will hold up traffic because it's the
only exit from the damn place, HAVE YOUR FRIGGING MAIL READY TO PUT INTO THE
DAMN CHUTE.
I was behind Mr. Slow-Poke today, who took a minimum of
three minutes to accomplish this task. I
know this because an entire song played on the radio while I waited. It's not like there was anyone else there --
the post office was closed. It took this
guy about two minutes to lean over and collect his mail (or fart, I'm not sure
which it was), another thirty seconds for him to actually lower his window
(must have had crank windows in his Mercedes), and then he had to figure out
how to reach the slot being so compact and all.
I followed him out of the place, pulling up behind him at a
red light. When it turned green (arrow,
so we have to be awake or we lose our chance to go), I ended up honking after
counting to ten. I had to jump-start the
guy because the steam coming out of my ears was starting to fog up my windows,
and I was afraid I would miss the light due to windshield obstruction.
Honestly, if you're going to have that much trouble with
yourself performing simplistic tasks, you know, such as putting mail in a slot
and actually going when a light turns green, maybe you should reconsider
leaving your house. If I had my bets,
though, your wife gave you a long list of errands just to get the hell away
from you.
Rocket scientists.
Always fucking things up and being common-senseless.
Road rage? Not
me. Much. But I did, and still do, have other things to
accomplsih today. If you can't even keep
minimal pace with the rest of us, do us all a favor: Pull over and get the hell out of the way.
