As I drove down Victory Blvd, a souped-up Honda Civic with tinted windows and a racing spoiler swooped up beside me, tailgating the car in front of him. Suddenly, he swooped into my lane and cut me off with no warning and only inches between our bumpers.
The Souped-Up Civic moments before I impaled it.
I quickly pulled the yellow lever where my cigarette lighter used to be.
ZIZZZ-THUNK! A grappling hook shot out from the front of my SUV, smashing through the Civic’s trunk and gripping his bumper. His tires spun and smoked in futility as I reeled him in like a prize marlin.
Road rage fantasy? At one time. But now “rage” had turned to “crusade.” This was not just some brutish impulse for vengeance. This was a higher calling. I lowered the finger and raised my fist to clean up the streets of L.A.
After all, the NHTSA (National Highway Traffic Safety Administration) estimates that somebody dies in a car accident EVERY 16 MINUTES in the U.S. That’s 90+ deaths per day and 30,000+ deaths per year, as well as 2.5 million injuries and 500 trillion megawatts of road rage.
But what’s the cause of all this mayhem? Aggressive driving? Distracted driving? Drunk driving? Yes, but also ignorant and oblivious driving. They all fall into one simple category: “Dumb Driving.”
So, about a year ago, I took up my crusade against Dumb Driving, and started modifying my Humvee. After months of hunting down special parts and illegal gizmos, and many late nights bolting, welding, and testing, my SUV was ready – but it now looked more like an SUB (Sport Utility Batmobile). “The Pile Driver,” as I called her, spewed a guttural roar and moved with the ominous grind of a WWII tank.
My modified Humvee ... "The Pile Driver"
Which brings us back to the souped-up Honda Civic impaled on my grappling hook.
I guess I could have just explained to the Civic driver that he should be more courteous, since aggressive driving accounts for about 10,000 traffic fatalities per year (more than one death per hour).
But the grappling hook was more effective. After slowing him down and letting a wave of cars pass by, I felt I had made my point. So I retracted the hook, detaching his rear axle, and went on my way.
Minutes later, I spotted a drunk businessman staggering out of a dive bar on Sepulveda Blvd. After stumbling into his Ford Taurus, he fishtailed out of the parking lot and into my sights.
It might have shaken him up to learn that a person is killed in a drunk driving-related accident every 48 minutes in the U.S. – about 10,000 deaths per year (many of those innocent victims). But I knew that would fall on deaf (or drunk) ears. So I pulled up behind him and pulled the red lever.
KRANGGG-WHIRRRRR! My SUV rocked as two hydraulic garbage truck arms extended from each side and clamped onto the Taurus, sealing its doors shut. Another hydraulic arm wielding a fire hose extended and lurched forward to puncture his roof. Hundreds of gallons of warm beer gushed into the Taurus until the driver was floating in yellow brew like a Mapplethorpe art project, sucking air next to the rear-view mirror. I popped his tires, made a quick anonymous call to local police, and left him to float into destiny.
The Taurus I filled with beer. I added a few goldfish just for kicks.
A few blocks later, a girl in a VW bug began drifting into my lane. I was witnessing the new #1 killer of teenagers in motor vehicles: texting while driving. I flipped on my RDHS (Remote Device Hijacking System) and shot a magnetic transmitter onto the side of her car, assuming control of her phone and vehicle (don’t ask how). I shut down her engine, stranding her in the middle of Ventura Blvd., and dictated directly onto her text screen:
“YOU ARE BEING MONITORED BY FEDERAL AGENTS. YOUR TEXT IS NOT WORTH ENDANGERING EVERYONE AROUND YOU! IF YOU TEXT WHILE DRIVING, YOU WILL GO TO PRISON. WE ARE WATCHING. WE KNOW WHERE YOU LIVE!”
I saw her jump out of her car and run away screaming as I drove off.
Cruising along Vanowen Blvd., I noticed a double-parked Corolla blocking the right lane and backing up traffic. Pulling the blue lever (no sound effect, these babies were quiet) two forklift arms extended and lifted the Corolla, carrying it safely to the next side street and unclogging the lane. A few drivers cheered me on. This was getting fun.
Seconds later, I felt my head and chest vibrate as a Ford Escalade pulled up beside me booming rap music at a deafening level.
Would he be curious to know that blasting loud music while driving can reduce reaction time by up to 20 percent, as well as prevent one from hearing sirens of ambulances and fire trucks?
I knew he wouldn’t, so I shot another RDHS remote transmitter onto his roof and took control of his car audio system (again, don’t ask how) via my own headset microphone. He nearly jumped through his roof as my voice boomed from his car speakers:
“TURN DOWN THE CRAPPY MUSIC YOU ARE INFLICTING ON EVERYONE AROUND YOU. YOU ARE MAKING EVERYONE’S HEAD VIBRATE WITH NOISE POLLUTION. AND YOU JUST CUT OFF AN AMBULANCE ON ITS WAY TO SAVE SOMEONE’S LIFE.”
After giving him the bit about Federal Agents, I connected him to the Neil Diamond XM station and continued on my way.
Next, I headed for the 405 freeway on-ramp at Victory. The minivan in front of me insisted on going 35mph to merge into 75mph traffic – normally a death-defying act of stupidity that causes abrupt braking and precarious swerving. But I just shot another RDHS transmitter, took her up to a much safer 65 mph, and easily slipped her into traffic.
This is what tailgaters deserve. Back off, man!
I spent the rest of the day crusading against Dumb Driving. A tailgater got a blast of raw sewage across his windshield; a cigarette butt flicker got 75 pounds of ash dumped into his lap; and a freeway fast-lane blocker got … well, he didn’t get anything, because that’s when I got caught. I was about to fire another transmitter when I looked in my mirror and noticed a cavalcade of police cars on my tail. (Why do my stories always end like this?)
Of course, leading police on a high-speed chase is the most reckless act of Dumb Driving. It endangers the lives of everyone around you and pulls law enforcement from other important duties – cause for a good beating, if ever there was one.
I pulled over and decided to take my lumps. But, in some small way, had I made a difference in the fight against Dumb Driving? Would I be the champion of smart drivers everywhere? The face of revolution on American roads?
As the handcuffs clinked onto my wrists, I realized I was just another road hazard in the Dumb Rush Hour of life.
The Tall Truth 