With all due credit to McSweeney's

An Open Letter to the Driver of the Light Blue Mercury Grand Marquis plastered with "Viva Bush," "Marriage = person in dress stick figure + person not in dress stick figure," "God Bless Our Troops" stickers, a Jesus Fish, no less than three American flags in the back window and a license that is one letter away from containing 'KKK'

First off, let me thank you. Thank you for validating every stereotype I have about both old people and republicans. Really, without you I'd feel like kind of a dick for pigeonholing groups of people. But thanks to you, I know I'm right on the money. I probably just caught your attention with the word 'money,' didn't I? Good...

Before I address the driving issues, I have a question about your bumper sticker. It cleared stated "Marriage = person in dress stick figure + person not in dress stick figure." Now, I have a minor in math and I can't seem to figure this one out. Obviously it's not implying that same-sex marriage is bad...that's just stupid. And even if that was your point, math would quickly disprove it. Check it out:

Marriage = man + woman; but according to the law, men and women are equal so
man = woman, therefore
marriage = man + woman = man + man = woman + woman

So what is it saying? That in any relationship, one person has to wear a dress at any given time? 'Cause that's not cool - Legal Counsel wears jeans often, and I don't own any dresses. Or are you saying pants wearing folks should marry the Scottish? So confused. I'll just move on.

I'd like to quickly note that I'll probably be referring to you as old throughout this old letter. I do this strictly to appease the gods of hyperbole. You probably weren't more than 50.

If you don't remember me - I was driving behind you as you traveled east on Speedway the first week of May. Honda. Civic. Silver...gold...tan...ok, I honestly don't know what color my car is. But it doesn't matter. What matters is your wonderful driving abilities. If you couldn't tell, that was sarcasm. You probably couldn't tell. It's hard to sound sarcastic in the written word. Which is weird, because it's hard for me to not speak sarcastically. But I digress.

Let me first start by saying that the posted speed limit is the minimum driving speed, since you apparently don't know that. Minimum. It's the law, look it up. So when the sign on Speedway says 35 (or whatever the blazes speed is posted), you definitely shouldn't be going 30. Unless Dennis Hopper is somehow involved. Strike one.

Let us now move on to what I'll refer to as the "KFC Incident." Do you remember the rumor going around that "Kentucky Fried Chicken" changed its name to "KFC" because it genetically engineered its chickens to not have bones or beaks, so they couldn't say 'chicken' anymore according to the FDA? I think I fell for that one...stupid teenage Montgomery. Damn it, I digressed again.

Where was I? Oh yes, the KFC Incident. You came to a complete stop at the entrance to the KFC. Let me ask: why? There is no reason to completely stop in moving traffic. Initially, I thought you were craving saturated fat, and the exiting car was crowding the KFC entrance (it wasn't, by the way, but you're old and conservative so you were probably confused, also explaining the lack of turn signal). Maybe you were waiting for Black Pickup with "Silly Boys, Trucks are for Girls" sticker to get out of your way. But no, once the truck was out of there and onto Speedway, you kept going straight, following it. Zuh? That's strike two, lady.

So I turn down Country Club, then through Sam Hughes just so I can get away from you. I felt to some degree as though I was acquiescing to vehicular terrorism, what with you in front of me and tailgating white sedan behind, but I had to do it. I'm not going back to jail for this. So I turn down whatever the hell street that I usually turn down to go through Sam Hughes and end up at the 4-way stop intersection. And what to my wandering eyes did appear? You.

Are you taunting me? Stalking me as part of some blood vendetta? What did I do to you? Nothing that I know of. Why won't you just leave me alone? Were you hired to kill me - and being the greatest assassin ever, you're driving me (pun intended) to kill myself? Just finish me off! Calm yourself, Montgomery...serenity now...

So you roll up to the stop sign a full 5 seconds ahead of me. At least. Then I roll up and stop, yet you have not moved an inch. Then you peek your little head over the steering wheel and give me a look of confusion. A look, I surmise, that is present on your visage over the vast majority of each day. Driving lesson the third: if you get to a 4-way stop first, you have right of way.

So I stare at your bewildered, weathered countenance and you stare back at my unshaven, grizzled puss and I sense a bit of a connection. Maybe I understand where you are coming from. You've lived a hard life. Your first sweetheart, Archibald, was killed in a freak zeppelin accident before your love could fully bloom. This scarring moment left you cautious, both in love and in life, for the rest of your cursed existence. For a moment, I feel sympathy. Then your face turns a slight scowl and your wrinkled hand signals me to pass. The connection is lost, my pity (and my fake story) vanishes and the rage returns. Why doesn't anybody in my neighborhood know how a 4-way stop works?

So I start to go. And so do you. Wha...? The "swoop, swoop" hand gesture is universally accepted as "go ahead." Why would you give it, then go yourself? Oh, I get it. That day was opposite day. Well, nice driving lady. So I stop. And so do you. It's like this weird Harpo Marx maneuver whereby you mimic each of my actions in the attempt to convince me that you're a reflection (okay, that reference was a little dated, but I do love the Marx brothers...except Karl). Finally I just let you go ahead, realizing it's a lost cause. Stee-rike three. You're out of here.

As frustrated as our little encounter left me, I also feel honoured. I feel as though I have learned at the feet of a master. You were teaching me. For me to learn your teachings, you had to teach me how to learn (Sphinx style). And your method: lead by example. Don't do what Debbie Don't does. Oh by the way, I'm calling you Debbie Don't now.

What did I learn? 1) Driving slow puts your life in danger 2) Don't stop in the middle of the street, even if it is to stare at the Colonel wistfully 3) First to stop is first to go 4) Number of bumper stickers is inversely proportional to both driving ability and intelligence (this goes double for republican bumper stickers, or republickers)

Speaking of republickers: in the end, after seeing the lessons I learned, I realized I was playing Plato to your Socrates. And hopefully you were driving to the hemlock store. I kid. Or do I? Seriously, that was a joke. Or was it? Yes.

Your protege,
Montgomery