Life In The Fast Lane

I love my morning commute. It gives me time to wake up, inject some java, enjoy a few pulls on the nicotine stick, and catch up on the daily exploits of organized professional pugilism on the ice, pitch, or gridiron. I've stopped listening to the local or national news long ago. That's just a lousy way to start your morning. Politics bore me, the murder rate per capita is never down, and home invasions never mean someone broke in to install a flat screen TV on your living room wall and leave behind treats for the pets.

These days I usually stay in the slow lane when I merge into the bloodstream they call Highway 1.  I love this lane, not because I'm slow (which I am), but because I get a real kick out of watching my fellow commuters in the other lane.  A while back I began making up stories about their lives based on their actions or facial expressions as they slowly pass by. This morning a poor fella driving a Honda had a haggled and panicked look on his face.  He got up this morning from a horrible nights sleep attributed to one too many wobbly pops with the boys and trips to the loo. He prided himself on avoiding his sons Tonka Truck on the way to the Kuerig, but wasn't so lucky because the sidestep
brought him right on top of the pile of yellow matter the dog deposited from devouring the leftover M&M's in the bowl from last nights event with the buds.  The white dots on the poor mans face suggested a lost battle against Sir Gillette, and I'm willing to bet the fro-hawk he was sporting wasn't intentional. I hope he makes it through the day

Directly (and I mean inches) behind this unfortunate fellow was an older behemoth Ford Pick Up with Alberta plates raised 20 feet in the
air. I envisioned a gun rack on the back window, a garter belt with fuzzy dice dangling from the mirror, and a tan nylon hanging off the rear hitch with two tennis balls suspended inside. I was dead wrong. Shame on me....
The nylons were blue. I couldn't see the driver but again, willing to barter my next meal he's probably 5' 3" , wears a John Deere hat backwards and answers to Chad or Bart.

Its a fun game, and don't deny it - you've all played it before; at the airport, the doctors office, or the local mall. But what scares me the most is the off chance I do happen to find myself in the fast lane and look to my right only to be met by the stare of a person who's sporting a smile and playing my  game. What does my face say?  Yours? Food for thought......Drive safe.