Road Rage “Geritol Generation Genocide”

The Angry Driver, Contributor

Road rage is never at its most frustrating when stuck behind old people driving. Old. Fucking. People. Driving. They drive cars that are only practical when you need absolute comfort for your champagne-sipping passengers while hurtling down the freeway at 100 m.p.h. They have the worst vision, the worst hearing, the worst reaction times and the worst attitude. I’d rather be stuck behind a drunk driver on a cell phone than crawl at 10 miles an hour through Old Town Eureka while stuck behind a massive car driven by a shrunken old bat who thinks she’s sitting on the couch at home having tea with her terrier.

I suppose at some point in old age you realize that nothing you do matters anymore so you just do what you want and fuck everyone else. So you drive as slow as you feel like, stop at every intersection whether there’s a stop sign or not, weave all over because it’s just too fucking much work to keep steering constantly, and what the hell, why not stop straining to see those stupid little mirrors anyway. They’re just a pain in the damn neck, right?

I mean it. It’s that bad, oldies. Even a drunk driver will have some kind of sense knocked into him when he crashes into a parked car. You Generation Geritol jerks would carefully crawl out of your massive Lincoln Town Car in your own damn time and, with a bewildered look on your face ask the police officer if you can help him with something. He screams something about a fire hydrant, car crash and some other stuff that your hearing aid didn’t quite pick up. You tell him that he should be more respectful of his elders and he gets a look on his face like he’s about to club you with his baton.

I’m not the first to think it, but possibly the first to say it: Old drivers are total fucking pieces of shit that would be beat to a greasy pulp on the side of the road if they were younger. Let’s figure out a good solution to this problem. One that involves a clean way to dispose of the bodies. One where we don’t have to touch those dead smelly fucking withered gross old bastards at all.

Really, I’m seriously calling for a cull. There is absolutely no reason why those bags of skin need to be driving when they barely got out of the house without a hip fracture or burning the place down. If you cannot get around on your own without causing a major hazard to literally everything, it’s time to close the blinds, draw the curtains lock the doors and start hoarding pets. We’d rather read about you being found dead for a month with 47 cats living off your decaying corpse than have to drive behind you for one single minute. Driving behind you is as nerve-wracking as following a driver-less car that’s just barely not crashing into everything. There’s no way to pass you on busy city streets. You can’t hear our screaming and honking. Because you can’t even see past the nose of the car, our flashing lights and hand gestures might as well be invisible. You have no idea what is really happening right now.

The worst part of all is that even if we can talk to you — shit, you’re old people. It just doesn’t feel right to go up to an old lady with a walker and tell her she’s a dumb stupid fucking dumb goddamn fucktard ugly stupid driver and I want to beat the dumb-fuck brains out of her goddamn skull with her fucking walker. I mean, it feels like you’re talking to your grandmother. And everyone knows grandma only likes it rough on Tuesdays. As for grandpa? Calling him a dumbass brain-dead cocksucker on the roadside might trigger that psychotic Korean War flashback and he’d pull out some crazy sword cane and start slashing with extreme prejudice. No one wants to have a bunch of 18-inch slices in their flesh. No one.

My simple request, Old People:Stop driving or hang yourselves. You are such a danger on the road that if you don’t kill someone it will be a son-of-a-bitch of a miracle. Take that miraculous sign to mean that your life is now complete and it’s time to die. That bottle of heart medication on the bedside table will do the trick. Just get into the wine cabinet, choose the oldest one and wash down those heart pills with a few glasses of red. Sit back, relax and pretend you’re driving.


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