The First Road Rage

This report is not for small children, the weak, or low carb dieters, but especially not for small, weak, dieting children. We will talk of road rage and yes, the Human Reproductive System.

Today, tomorrow if you are going to read this the next day, you will discover the origin of Road Rage, but we’ll get to that later on down the road.

Road Rage reigns on interstate highways, golf courses, and sadly, any funeral procession with a contested will. Seemingly, normal folks who allow you pass them with one or two items at Kroger’s Super Market will morph into foul-mouth, nasty epithet spewing, seething, boiling fascists, once behind the wheel.

Friday afternoon in any major city, let the bumper buggy barrage begin. Lien holders and auto insurance executives fall into fetal positions to wait out the CARnage.

Autos jockey for position, driver bodies stiffen. Clinched, knuckled hands lock to steering wheels. Motorist’s eyes blaze straight ahead. Operators never acknowledge the frantic hand signaling a merger request from a haggard underpaid driver of a van full of Girl Scouts on their way home after visiting a nursing home.

Let us pause to reflect with a passage from the book of Festus, chapter 4, verse 7, which reads, “Mathyouuuuu, Ye, who yield to the lowliest late model Ford, will have also yielded unto the Lord, and a shade-covered parking spot will be provided for you in Heaven, when your license expires.”

Talk about Road Rage with any professional NASCAR driver, although they go by pretty fast, and he or she will agree that the most dangerous sport is not on the closed circuit NASCAR track. It is attempting to make it home in rush hour traffic.

Even the late, great Dale Earnhardt, (God Bless him. He was the best. Ol Number 3 will always be riding with us. He was good people, nobody better. Good family man. Rest in peace, Oh Sweet Intimidator. You just gotta see the made-for-TV movie), would not have raced in such an irresponsible manner.

Real Road Rage begins before birth, even before conception. Here’s where you send the small children away to watch the Sponge Bob Show.

The male submits about 300 million single cells with snapping rear tails to the female partner each time that the couple mates, more than 500 million, if a bunk bed is involved.

These tiny creatures are the most aggressive, far ranging, maniacal, no quarter given, tail slashing, motivated creatures ever discovered in the universe. Time lapse studies held in Fallopian tube-shaped Petri dishes in an underground lab, reveal the action. All the little Aliens stream out onto Fallopian Blvd with wild wanton abandon.

When scientists zoomed in on the specimens, they discovered a world that no one could have conceived, I mean dreamed. But, there it was on the glass slide: “All them little fellers got advertising on their back.”     

First one-cell driver through the Cervix is Ol Number 3, the Vagisil sponsored sperm. He’s looking mighty motile. And drafting right behind him is the Gyne-Lotrimin sponsored Number 17. He’s a relatively new comer in the race game, exercising some energy sparing strategy. Looks like he’s gonna try to take the inside corner and pass Ol Number 3 when they bank into the right Fallopian tube’s first turn.

But don’t count out Ol Wily Number 3.  He’s liable to shove the Gyne-Lotrimin entry smack into that hard Fallopian tube wall. Looks like Number 17 has backed off. He doesn’t want any part of that furiously flipping weapon of a tale that Ol Number 3 is sporting.

They cut each other off, twitching tails thump each other. There is no teamwork here, no working for the common good in this bunch. It is every man for himself and God help those who take a wrong turn, the critters that stubbornly head up the wrong Fallopian tube and never stop to ask for directions.

It is truly a matter of life or death, to thunder up that eternal track, hurtling toward a checkered flag destiny and beyond, to a good-looking, well-put-together egg in the winner’s circle.

Sadly, there is but one winner and that only occurs on special occasions when the moon is just right and the wine is especially sweet and warm. There are always millions of losers on each trip. Flotsam, debris, DNA driftwood, wreckage, bent spoilers, boiled over radiators, sirens in the distance. The traffic finally stops moving, completely, and forever.

Yet, there is ongoing work to find a Road Rage cure. Perhaps some day we will offer Estrogen-emitting steering wheels in our vehicles. The wheel warms, from the driver’s hand pressure and the heat often associated with Road Rage. Minute traces of calming Estrogen enter the demented driver’s skin pores.

In early studies with hormone stimulating steering wheels, subjects parked along the roadside, giggled with each other, planned vacations and dinner parties, and did each other’s nails.