Monsoon Martin’s Open Letter of Grievance to the Drivers of Baltimore - Part Four
My plantive cyber-remonstration concludes…
The Blazing Bringer of Blindness. Plenty of cars come standard with these floodlights—the blue-white LED headlights that shine much more brightly than halogen headlights. Halogen headlights shine at around 1500 lumens, whereas LED headlights emit 60,000 lumens of retina-searing light. (OK, that number may be high. I think it’s actually around 4000 to 6000 lumens. But still!) Note: I realize people often don’t have a say in what headlights they’ll have. I still hate them. Did I say every item on this list would be rational? Indeed, I did not. (And when the driver retrofits or modifies the headlights illegally, it only serves to deepen the intensity of my white-hot incandescence of my OH MY GOD I CAN’T SEE SHIT.)
The Jalopy. This is the car that stopped being roadworthy several years ago, and yet it still, somehow, runs. I’ve seen cars with no front or rear bumper, no headlights, one windshield wiper, one or more flat tires, severe chassis damage, a significantly cracked windshield, and a profound will-to-live deficit. Aside from trying to extend the life of a car for financial considerations, the principal reason for this parade of wretched wrecks is that in Maryland, a car needs to be inspected when it is first registered—and never again. (Only yearly emissions testing is required to maintain registration.)
The Drifter. No, this isn’t a reference to a transient person. It refers to vehicles that drift near or across the yellow line (or seem to drift in and out of their chosen lane, apparently at will). My outcry when encountering these drifters: “Pick a lane, Dickshirt!” (Sometimes I am so flummoxed by the outrageously bad driving that I actually begin to lose the power of coherent speech.)
The “I Shan’t Deviate From My Chosen Lane” Mulish Driver. This mulish meathead refuses to pull over to the next lane if someone is stopped on the shoulder of a highway.
Corollary: The self-absorbed suck-lord that doesn’t yield the roadway to emergency vehicles—or barges into funeral processions. Or don’t pull over for emergency vehicles, barge into funeral processions, or don’t stop—or even slow down—when a school bus is stopped with the red lights on. This variety of traffic turdlet apparently believes that neither life nor death shall supercede their own convenience.
The Zoomer. My time is more important than yours! In fact, my time is more important than your life!!
Monsoon Martin’s Open Letter of Grievance to the Drivers of Baltimore - Part Three
My exercise in road rage catharsis continues…
The Inconsiderate Parker. This is the narcissistic dick who patks athwart two (or even three! or four!!) spaces. Some Brits call them Parking Wankers (there’s even a hilarious Instagram page devoted to shaming such transgressors).
The People-Pleasing Courtesy Hound. Something between a doorman and a doormat. This is the driver who lets car after car go ahead of them in bumper-to-bumper traffic, presuming that all the drivers behind them are glad to cede the road. Sometimes they are almost aggressive in insisting after you. Disrupts the flow of traffic and doesn’t feel like kindness. Prepare to feel the wrath of my huffy, protracted horn.
Stupid-Assed Cyber Trucks. Self-explanatory, really. Every time I see one, I make a face as though I have unexpectedly eaten a mushroom. I have, out of decency, refrained from making you look at a picture of one.
The Turn Signal Disuse and Misuse Corps - aka The Misdirection Squad. This is a proud and ceaselessly creative group, comprising:
Drivers who seem to have forgotten that the turn signal is there
Drivers who give the turn signal a perfunctory flip just as they’re beginning their turn, helping no one
Drivers who inexplicably deploy the turn signal as they are about to commit an infraction noted elsewhere (e.g., the weaver, the zipper merge jagoff, and the middle-lane abusing shitbird)
The Bicyclist on a Rural Road, where hills and bends make it difficult for a driver to pass them. (In fact, I just learned that the typical hobby bicyclist is called a MAMIL—middle-aged man in Lycra—and I am here for the dismissiveness and incisiveness of this term.) Even worse: a pack of these grinding tryhards taking up an entire lane. (Yes, I know that bicyclists have a right to be on the road, blah blah blah, but they fill me with rage. I—with no hyperbole or histrionics—hate them.)
The “I Will Kill Us All to Avoid Missing My Exit!” Tom-Fool. This highway menace realizes at the last moment that they are in the wrong lane, so they cut across (however many it takes) lanes to make it.
Corollary: The Forking Idiot. This is when someone thinks they may have missed their exit, but they’re not sure, so they stop right at the crotch of the exit ramp. In extreme cases, this person will pass the exit by 200+ yards and then reverse on the highway or careen down the grassy knoll to take the proper exit.
Monsoon Martin’s Open Letter of Grievance to the Drivers of Baltimore - Part Two
My list of complaints continues…
The Unrepentant Off-Cutter. You cut me off by pulling out in front of me—so suddenly, in fact, that I have to apply my brakes vigorously. Rest assured, I will be applying my horn quite vigorously as well. This is particularly maddening when there is no one behind me for at least a quarter mile and that person could have waited 1.5 seconds, then pulled onto the roadway after me.
Related: my nana was a verbal wizard, especially when it came to traffic commentary. My favorites: “Where’d you get your license, Pep Boys?!” and “Blow it out your ass!” and “Get bent, ya crumb!” Maximally concise, yet breathtakingly incisive.
The Drivers (Riders? Straddlers?) of Motorcycles and electric bikes (and even scooters) creating their own lanes, flouting most traffic laws and generally behaving as though the rules of the road don’t apply to them.
The Zipper Merge Jagoff. Two lanes narrow to one. Plenty of notice. The sensible thing to do: stay in your current lane, then zipper merge in an orderly and civilized fashion. Instead, Turd Ferguson next to you is jockeying for position like it’s the Indy 500. Untwist your knickers, Turd. Do you really need to get there 2.67 seconds sooner?
Corollary: the shoulder jammer. In one of these zipper merge situations, there’s often a daredevil who decides that the shoulder is an extra lane. They zoom up, bypassing car after car, until they are thwarted by one of these Highway Justice dingleshits who feel it’s their duty to patrol the shoulder and block transgressors.
The Extreme Tailgater. Especially charming on one-lane roads. Where do you want me to go? I shall proceed at the pace I feel I can safely navigate. You can gesticulate and crowd me all you want. Also, your mom. Note: I often say “Hey, why don’t you just climb inside my asshole!” when encountering this situation. Another common yawp: “Get fucked, bumper humper!” (Disclaimer: I never said my responses to these rage-inducing driving behaviors is mature, advisable, or child-appropriate.)
The Distracted Driver. I have seen drivers engaging in the following activities whilst driving: texting, watching videos, eating, applying makeup, reading, playing cards, flipping through a large CD carrying case, yelling at children in the back seat, using a woodturning lathe, playing a video game, and sleeping. Shit you not. (Alright, shit you a little. I made up the lathe. But all others I have seen with my own two eyes.) How many times have you been behind a car at a red light and they don’t budge once the light turns green? In fact, how many times today? The frightening truth is that driving a potentially lethal weapon often garners the least focus and attention from drivers.
Related: When my “gentle nudge” beep comes out as a “testy bellow,” I look in my rear-view mirror as if to say, “What impatient pissypants has just breached the aural peace (and rules of etiquette) by sounding the horn so aggressively?” So if the person in front of me (at whom the nudge was directed) looks back indignantly, they will see me looking back indignantly and assume it was someone behind me.
The Red Light Optional Brigade. I have seen many drivers for whom a red light is a traffic convention from which they are exempt. And I’m not just talking about folks who see a yellow light, speed up, and careen wildly through the intersection. I’m talking about the light is RED RED and I’m watching agape as these speed demons just sail on through. I generally respond with “I guess he was in a hurry” or “slow down, speed demon!” or “muhhh-thaaaa-ffffucka.”
Monsoon Martin's Open Letter of Grievance to the Drivers of Baltimore - Part One
Hello, Baltimoreans. I have driven among yous for several years now. To quote Frank Costanza, “I've got a lot of problems with you people, and now you’re gonna hear about it!”
I have found the people of Charm City to be, by and large, lovely and welcoming. But the same person who will hold the door open for you at Wawa - smiling broadly - will also, once driving, cut you off and unleash a shitstorm of profanity toward you. Often, that is also done while smiling broadly.
I present to you my list of grievances, many of which rise to the level of irrational loathing, and regarding which I have been told by mental health professionals, "When something is out of your control, the thing you can control is your reaction to it."
This is a worthy goal, my pursuit of which has been, to date, an utter failure. A work in progress, I suppose.
The list:
The Weaver. This is a driver who thinks he (let's face it, almost always a male) is playing a first-person rally car video game. This driver cuts it razor-close, but is long gone once I lay on my horn and gesticulate wildly as if to say, "What the fuhhhhh??!!" (Note: often accompanied by actual words and coarser gestures to that effect.) The weaver gives no shit. He is engaged in a road race with his friends (real or imagined) and we are all NPCs.
Corollary: Road Racers. These are packs of 4-5 numbnutses who believe that they are engaged in a high-stakes contest, whose winner earns glory and a handsome prize. In reality, they are just knuckle-dragging knuckleheads in shitty cars terrorizing other drivers.
Corollary: Car Farts. Some of these addle-pated blunderbusses actually modify their cars so that they produce deafening backfires, accompanied by jarring showers of sparks. The backfires sound very much like gunfire—especially when they happen right as one of these cars passes, as happened to me. Damn near soiled my pants, I did.
Note: This is a lengthy video. But it’s cued up to the right spot. (In case it isn’t, watch from about 2:40 to 3:10.)
The Maddeningly Polite Weaver. This is a conventional weaver, but with the addition of conscientious use of turn signals. Why does this aggravate me? If you're going to be an asshole, lean all the way in. Adding turn signals to narcissistic, unhinged driving is like shoving someone down the stairs and yelling “Sorry!” as they tumble along.
The Sociopathic Double Parker. This craven douchenozzle has stopped their car in the middle of the road—and if we’re lucky, put on the hazards as an irrelevant nod to traffic decorum. This driver is particularly infuriating when there’s an open area at the curb where they could have parked without disrupting traffic. Most infurating is when a driver double parks on a one-way street (or a street only wide enough for a single lane of traffic. No one can get by, and the sociopathic double parker give zero shits.
The Shitbird who treats the middle turn lane of a busy road like it's the shitbird’s own special onramp. This happens often on roads like Reisterstown, where you typically have two lanes going each direction and a center lane to assist with left turns. The lane is there to facilitate left turns leaving the roadway—not as your own personal onramp to help you make a left turn onto the middle=lane road.
Corollary: Ding-dongs who use the middle lane as an extra travel lane to become a bonus passing lane. I’ve seen several accidents that stemmed from center turn lane misuse.
The Backer-in. Friends, this list is not in any order—but if it were, I’m sure this infraction would be near the top of the list. This spree of sociopathy is particularly infuriating when deployed in a busy, crowded parking lot. Some dingus seems to have driven past a spot, but then suddenly throws it into reverse. Now every other car behind the dingus has to wait while said dingus executes this operation.
Corollary: the dinguses who do this are very often the least skilled at driving in reverse, necessitating several passes—each accompanied by fiddling ineffectually with the side mirrors—before the car is safely ensconced.
When I see a driver back into a spot that could have easily been a pull-through, it takes a great deal of restraint not to accost them and confiscate their license.
People who don’t have any idea how to act when encountering a blinking yellow (slow down and proceed with caution, yielding to other vehicles already in the intersection) or blinking red light (treat it exactly like a stop sign).