Road Rage

By staff April 11, 2007

Hey, crappy drivers: Me and my Easton Synergy have something to say.


By Hannah Wallace


I don’t condone violence. I do, however, condone trash-talking.


Driving home from Ellenton, post-hockey Hannah is usally hopped-up on endorphins and feeling a little invincible; 301 is a never-ending parade of halfwits in automobiles. This is not a good combination.


There was the kid in a van—17 at most, but with a sexist sneer worthy of a soap opera villain—who made lewd gestures in my direction (of course, I got caught next to him at every red light between Tropicana and Myrtle) until I finally gave him a little “c’mere, little boy” nod as I grabbed my hockey stick out of the back seat. Keep it up, Junior; I hope you’ve got a good dental plan.


There was the woman in the Trans Am who took such offense at my too-slow speed (10 mph over the speed limit) in the left-hand lane that when I finally had room to pull over, she merged, too, and then got so close on my ass that her headlights disappeared. To her, I promised a permanent tattoo of my license plate in her forehead.


And it’s not just 301: The Trail, for example, has been a jackass magnet of late, and hockey or no, I’m (unfortunately) even more tempted to flip out on drivers when we’re within Sarasota proper.


Monday, as I was walking down the Burns Court alley next to Mickey’s, a woman in the Mercedes (or was it a Lexus?), driving like a maniac through what is essentially a parking lot, hit a puddle and drenched me in putrid water. I found myself marching after her with my middle finger in the air. Then I realized that was not the most professional pose while I was still on the magazine’s time. But if I see her again, she’s getting a Starbucks shower—and that’s being kind. I smelled like urine and sulfur water for the rest of that afternoon.


Of course, I make a sanctimonious point of not driving like a jerk so that my tirades aren’t hindered by thoughts of hypocrisy. I would never dream of using my car as a weapon. Instead, I dream of dragging the next weaving, speeding, turn-signal-less moron out of his Miata and giving him a good talking to.


And my hockey stick will probably have a few choice words for his windshield, too.
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