Driving Ms. Boca

postThis is the face I will give you when you are a South Florida driver and you inevitably f*ck with my travels.

**A warning: There are too many curse words here, so I will again forgo the asterisk. Stop reading if you are easily offended**

In my last ‘Boca Friday’ I thanked the eccentricities of Bocaites for my character and dialogue blueprints, but it’s a short-lived celebration, with a shelf life of how long it takes me to get from my bagel place and to the intersection in front of it. Road rage is a universal affliction, I know I’m not unique. But I’m convinced mine is a special demon that erupts out of my face like The Thing with a flamethrower. I. Hate. Shitty. Drivers.

I was a criminal at seventeen. I got tickets going 60mph in a 25 on a regular basis, got stopped at 110 on my way back from Spring Break and used construction cones to rank up hit points on my degenerate tally. I was unapologetic to cops and laughed in court. I still can’t go the speed limit to save my life, and if there’s a hint of a car somewhere in front of me I will get around them at any cost.

BUT, I’m a great driver. Sure I still haven’t mastered the median in front of the kids’ school, but that’s what SUVs are for. I know I look like a pygmy driving a school bus and I’m AOK with it. I can thread a needle with your sedan.

But holy shit, drivers here are awful. Ask anyone about them and what’s the biggest complaint? ‘South Florida drivers are so RUDE.’ I’m like, fuck that. Drive around with your window down calling me a cunt, I don’t give a shit. Just at least DRIVE THE FUCKING SPEED LIMIT.

I don’t know if it’s because they’ve got one foot in the grave and have forgotten that the rest of us are high-speed gimme generationers, but I’ve got places to be and I have no qualms about attaching myself to your bumper and laying on the horn for the remainder of your trip if you don’t get the fuck out of my way.

Remember that commercial where the parent is shown in a few anger-inducing situations? A dad yelling on his cell, a woman spilling coffee on herself, another shaking her fist out a car window? For each there’s a trailing toddler, a mini-version of the parent mirroring the same behavior. ‘You’re always being watched, so be careful,’ or some message like that. I get it, and I’m careful to not curse like a motherfucker in front of the kids. They even say ‘bum’ for ‘butt’ and ‘underarm’ for ‘armpit’. I’m raising classy broads.

But put a half-dead hobbit in a slow car in front of me and all hell breaks loose. Listen, hooray for being old and still having your driver’s license. I’m happy to have crotchety badasses on the road with me. Just replace a hip and lean on that pedal on the right. Some of us need to get home in time for Real Housewives.