This is nothing new. Commuter traffic north on I-93 on a weekday evening is like trying to put a needle through a piece of steel: Futile, at best.
Inching along minding my own business, an asshole from Rhode Island in the lane next to me suddenly jams his foot onto the accelerator of his blue suped-up make-believe sports car (Toyota sedan), cuts in front of me, and starts throwing me the bird out his window.
Say, what? Dude, what the hell did I do other than sit in the same traffic?
Maybe he's flipping off someone in the other lane, I don't know. Doesn't matter. I instantly curse him and his car and hope he runs off the road and falls into oblivion while reaching some untimely and gruesome fate.
This is when the radio starts channeling my inner thoughts. I switch stations around, trying to find something other than traffic reports (no shit 93 is backed up at the border - I'm sitting in this crap - thanks for the update). One of my preset stations is WCRB, which is classical music.
Yes, this is perfect. Perrrrrrrrrfect.
All I can think of whenever I hear this is Bugs Bunny and The Rabbit of Seville. I am Bugs, and the RI nutcase in front of me is Elmer Fudd. Every time Elmer weaves back into the other lane trying to make more headway, I block him out. Eventually he gets in front of me again in the left lane. Then he goes back over to the right lane. I get up next to him, blasting Rossini and pretending not to notice him from behind my big-ass cheapo sunglasses.
Flip me off again, motherfucker; I dare you.
This goes on for about three miles of gridlock until he eventually veers off for an exit. I smile, like Bugs would, perfectly content that Elmer Fudd is gone just as the traffic opens up wide and starts moving at 70 mph.
