There may be New York plates on the cars I drive now, but I am a Boston Driver, born and bred.
Let me be clear for those who have never had the pleasure of driving with us Masshole license holders: We will kill you. My husband, who is from San Diego, is terrified to drive with me. He says he gets frightened when I yell at other drivers. First off, I say, if the motherfuckers didn’t deserve it, I wouldn’t have to yell. Second, it’s not like the motherfuckers can hear me.
After a few years of being sans vehicle while living in New York City, I now have an opportunity to be in touch with my long-dormant Masshole while driving about an hour, each way, on the Long Island Expressway to my new teaching job on Long Island, twice a week.
I learned to drive like a Masshole from my grandmother. Gam taught me to follow all traffic signals and laws, mind you. No need to be a dick. She taught me you can usually go at least ten miles over the speed limit before it’s worth it for the cops to pull you over. She taught me when someone’s riding so close up your ass you can taste their fender in your throat, there’s no need to hit your brakes — just turn your headlights on and off. It will LOOK like you hit your brakes, see? Gam would do that and giggle manically as the idiot behind us hit their brakes in panic. But she would not give the finger. That would not be ladylike.
Gam sister, Barbara, taught me how to steer with my knees and remove my bra while taking the S-turns on the Expressway through South Boston at 90 miles per hour. Bras get uncomfortable.
My father taught me how to keep my left hand firmly at high noon at the steering wheel, while bending over to dig for my lighter that has slid across the dashboard to the far right of the passenger side, eyes barely able to see the road. God, I miss smoking.
My late friend, Michelle, taught me how to apply mascara with my right hand, while holding my cigarette in my left, while steering with my knees, while taking a rotary to get onto I-93.
It’s downright cathartic to get onto LIE while blasting hair bands from the late 80s and yelling at other drivers:
- “You’re an asshole!”
- “You’re such a peckerhead. I’m going to remember your plate number, go home, make you a medal, and mail you the Peckerhead LIE Driver of the Year award”.
- “WTF is your problem? Mommy not breastfeed you long enough?”
- “You, sir, are a dick.”
- “I hope you die of cancer”
- “I hope your car flips over”.
- “Why don’t you jump out of tree and die.”
- “Oh no, motherfucker. You don’t use a directional, you don’t get to the exit.”
- “I hate you.”
- “No wonder your car looks like a piece of shit.”
- “Oh, you’re special. You got a hatchback!”
- “You’re lucky I don’t have a weapon.”
- “You must have a very small penis, to drive a car like that in such a fashion.”
Once I get home, I go back to taking cute pictures of cats, The Masshole is dormant. But she will rise again.
