Nobody can drive but me

Plato once said, “You are young, my son, and, as the years go by, time will change and even reverse many of your present opinions. Refrain therefore awhile from setting yourself up as a judge of the highest matters.”

Sorry, P-Daddy, but I’ve got a hankerin’ for some good old fashioned judging. Today’s defendant: the 60% of drivers out there who refuse to use their turn signal. It’s a real shame to drive down the boulevard to have a 2006 Ford Mustang cut right in front of you with not so much as a glimmer of the blinker. A nice car like that doesn’t have turn signals? I’d take that automobile right back to the shop so one of the helpful associates can take a look at the broken taillights.

I can see the argument against using turn signals when changing lanes – it’s not the law. Actually, my driving deviant friend, it is. The government here in the Sunshine State fixed this problem a while back. Observe:

“You must use hand signals or directional signals to show that you are about to turn. Turn signals are required when changing lanes or overtaking a vehicle.” (Courtesy of the Florida Driver’s Handbook)

Now, if your carelessness was actually a product of being misinformed, consider yourself informed. If your carelessness is a product of your disregard for anyone and everyone around you, I’d like to propose a hypothetical scenario.

You’re driving along. A Mac truck is in the lane ahead of you. A Mercedes merges into the gap created between you and Trucker Pete without using its turn signal. You narrowly evade death by swerving into the emptiness created by the Mercedes’ old lane. And while you may be safe, you are peeved. You spew angry words of hate, the likes of which your mother would never have uttered within 100 yards of her kitchen, and a fire of hatred builds in your heart. Mr. Mercedes speeds along his merry affluent way, while you’re left with an ulcer the size of a watermelon caused by the stress of the incident. Don’t you think the Mercedes could have used a blinker so that you would have ample time to either create room for the merge or speed up and ruin his day? And if he can go ahead and hit that lever on the side of the steering column, don’t you think you could return the favor?

I’m just saying that once everybody starts to drive in a uniform manner, more people will live longer as a result of reduced accidents and far fewer stress-induced sicknesses.

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College Daze

Boy, does college look great.

I went to preview last week to register for my classes and to get the obligatory don’t-do-drugs-or-drink-because-you-will-die speeches. I had to pick a major. I think that’ll prove to be the hardest part of college.

I finally picked a beginning major of political science. Yeah, I know: everybody and their mother takes political science. And, you know, the world always needs more politicians. But I figure that someday I might be able to declare a dual major or a minor or get a certificate in Public Affairs or something of that sort. And then, who knows? Maybe I’ll go to the state and volunteer to take up teaching. God knows that we need fewer morons in front of the class, and the benefits of free coffee and summers off intrigue me.

But the best part? Well, I’m taking 12 credit hours of classes during the first semester, which is the bare minimum to be a full time student, which is the only way I can live the next few years of my life off of the benevolent taxpayers of the state of Florida. I conveniently scheduled my classes such that two of the four courses I take are solely internet-based courses. And the other two, American Federal Government and U.S. History to 1877, will take up a mere seven hours of my week: three hours on Monday and Wednesday, and only one hour on Thursday.

What ever will I do with myself?

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There Aren't Enough Hours in a Day

So, I’ve completely messed up my sleep schedule.

Generally speaking, now that it’s summer, I stay up for 13 hours daily and sleep for the remaining 11. But I have a nasty habit of going to bed later each night than I did before, so my daily routine of going to bed at 4:00 A.M. and waking up at 3:00 is slowly turning into a progressive cycle in which I will soon go to bed at 5:00 and wake up at 4:00. Five o’clock will soon turn into 6:00 A.M., at which time I don’t think I will be able to justify going to sleep at the beginning of a new day.

I wish people had daylight savings time every other day. Then, I wouldn’t have to worry about anything.

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Here, Fishy Fishy

Last night, I went fishing with my good buddy Angus.

We loaded up Dad’s old pickup and headed out at 9:00, not leaving the pier until 1:30 in the morning. Now, I am not afraid to admit that I am not a trophy fisherman. In fact, something the television never taught me were the harsh reality of an angler’s life: expensive shrimp, slimy fish, and the pressure of watchful and knowledgeable eyes on the dock.

First off, I didn’t know how many shrimp to get. So I went with three dozen.
“I’d like three dozen medium shrimp, please.”
“We only have jumbo.”
“Okay, I’d like three dozen jumbo shrimp, please.”
“That’ll be $18.00.”
“Ooooooooh. Okay, I guess.”
So, I overshot the amount of jumbo shrimp we would need. Who knew? If those last 15 shrimp had lived through the night in the cramped recesses of my outrageously small bait bucket, they’d be really relieved that I let them go at the end of the night. But they didn’t. So they weren’t. Oh well.

And secondly: why in God’s name did God decide to make these fish so ungodly wet and slimy and icky? I know I sound girly and all, but good golly. These things are so gross! So, I left all the fish touching to my good buddy Angus. I know, he is more of a man than I will ever be. But without the soft, sensitive type of person that I have come to represent, how would Jerry’s Kids ever make any money? You think big, burly lumberjack types would add a dollar to their purchase of maple syrup and whiskey at the local Walgreen’s? I think not.

Coincidentally, one of these big, burly lumberjack types was at the pier last night. And he was quite the fisherman. You could look down the wooden structure to see this fat dude, sitting on his cooler, watching his four fishing poles and smoking his Lucky Stripes. It’s guys like this that make me wary of repeating the fishing experience. Here I am, flinching when grabbing my overpriced jumbo shrimp and trying to catch anything, and there’s this guy eyeing me up who actually knows what he’s doing. I get embarrassed easily, what can I say? I would much rather have been on my own pier, completely devoid of big, fat, burly guys named Phil who probably live in their mothers’ basements.

So, over four hours later and after hooking a baby shark (which, by the way, was ferocious) and what appeared to be a little redfish (which, by the way, was comparably ferocious), Angus and I decided to pack up and go home.

I have a newfound respect for the good people of Long John Silver’s.

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