Don't Tailgate the Swagger Wagon

Faithful readers, as you know, I like to take out my aggression via open letters to people who have done me wrong. 

I present to you an open letter to the teenager who was tailgating me this morning.

Dear Bad Driver,

We are nowhere near the Indianapolis 500 race track.  The posted speed limit for our community is 25 miles per hour. 

I was driving between 25 and 30 miles per hour for two reasons.  One, I am a law-abiding citizen, and two, it was 8:00 in the morning and school buses are traversing our streets.  Children are waiting at their bus stops, so it is ultra important to be vigilant and aware.  (This also goes for the woman in the black SUV who keeps doing the hands-in-the-air WTF sign when she has to stop for my boys' bus.  Calm yourself.)

Was your passenger in labor?  Bleeding profusely and needing immediate medical attention?  Trying to get to her dying grandmother before she took her last breath?  If not, then there was NO reason for you to be driving approximately 2-3 feet from my rear bumper. 

When I obnoxiously slowed down to 10 miles per hour, it was to draw your attention to how closely you were riding my @ss, not to get you to honk your (high-pitched, girly-sounding) horn and swerve out of the lane as if to pass me.  While I realize my pimped out swagger wagon may have led you to believe that I wanted to race, I can assure you that I did not.  I’ll let you in on a little secret: it’s a mini-van, and I have no desire to play vehicular chicken.

And let me tell you something else: I was carrying my precious cargo.  It terrifies me to think that your carelessness and your aggression could cause an accident in which one of my children is hurt.  Hell hath no fury like a woman scorned, especially if you've hurt one of her babies.

You are not invincible.  I know you think you are, but you ARE NOT.  Please act like the responsible young adult that your parents think you are.  I know they would be horrified to learn of your behavior behind the wheel.  

You will get where you need to be, I promise. 

Slow your sh*t.

Thank you,

BoyMommy