8 People You’ll See Road Tripping
Road trips. There’s a reason they’re a tried and true (or overplayed) movie genre: they’re fun as hell! Some of our best (or worst) stories come from long distance driving. With most airports eye humping and groping you and trains a major rip-off, road trips are the way to go. Whether you’re headed cross-country or just back to your college dorm, keep an eye out for these fellow travelers.
I’m just trying to get from point A to point B. Nothin’ to see here, folks. Just some so-and-so in a dark-colored sedan. Don’t bother admiring my baseball cap- I root for a team who consistently ends the season at a little below .500.
I’m listening to mix CD of Coldplay and Dave Matthews right now. I am driving the exact speed limit. When I stopped at a McDonald’s for lunch, I got a plain Big Mac and a coke. I didn’t even get dipping sauce from my fries. If I ever had sex, it would be in the missionary position with the lights off. Please, save yourself the time and drive on.
Captain Mid-Life Crisis
LOOK! LOOK AT ME! Admire my vintage Thunderbird. Stand in awe at its ostentatious red paint job. “Ooh” and “aah” at the shiny chrome rims. How much did it cost? Only my dignity, friend, only my dignity.
You like the ponytail? Thanks, I finished growing it out right around the time I divorced my wife and bought this Hawaiian shirt and leather jacket. Her? That sexy blonde in the passenger seat? We just got married last week - no, don’t ask her name, I bought her direct from Russia, doesn’t speak a word of English, human trafficking is hip these days, right?
Yeah, the sound system’s all new – I really pimped this baby out. Have you heard the new Dave Matthews album?
Too Much Eye Contact Guy
We’ve been driving in parallel lanes for the last twenty miles, and I’ve only looked back at the road twice the whole time. Why am I staring at you? That’s for me to know and you to get anxious about.
Maybe you’re driving poorly. Is something wrong with your car? Is your blinker on? Is your gas tank open? I’ll never tell. Maybe it’s your tires. Maybe I just don’t like you.
Oh, here comes my exit. Well, it was nice driving precisely at pace with you for the last hour. Let’s do it again sometime, okay? I’ll find you. I know where you live.
The Only Hot Driver For 500 Miles
Yup, that’s me, the only attractive motorist in the tri-state area. I realize this ’83 Jeep doesn’t match my nail polish, but the overly masculine car makes me all the more intriguing, doesn’t it?
You took a detour just to keep driving near me. You almost crashed into that guy at the last exit because you were staring at my chest. You’ve already determined my cup size and age within a three-year margin of error. In the real world I’d probably be only a 6 or 7, but on this sauasge-fest of a highway, I’m Heidi f*cking Klum.
No, I will not make eye contact with you. Acknowledge we share the same stretch of road? A rube like you? F*ck outta here.
Come on, I’m harmless! Just a dude with a backpack and a walking stick. I’m even clean-shaven. Who ever heard of a clean-shaven hitchhiking murderer? No one, that’s who. My thumb’s pointing in your direction – come on, do a good deed!
Oh, sorry, that’s my hook-hand. THIS one’s my thumb. What, the hook hand? It’s nothing, just a replacement, there was an accident with a chainsaw once, don’t worry – should I put my stuff in your trunk, then? Yeah, just a sleeping bad and a backpack full of knives - uh, socks, I mean. Knapsack full of socks and gas money and definitely not bloodstained knives.
Get out? What do you mean, get out? Boy, you better hope I don’t catch up with you at a rest stop or so help me you will be a lampshade by morning - oh, you mean get out so you can adjust the seat. Right.
Thanks for the ride!
Vanity License Plate Douchebag
THUG LYF3. HOT T. 53XX1 1. Marvel at my arrogance. Question my penis size. Go ahead, your thoughts mean nothing to me. The force of my hubris could topple entire nations. I haven’t thought about anyone besides myself since 1997. And that was only to ponder who invented hair gel.
So, Mr. EGS-6755, what’s your deal? Why can’t you fit your biography onto a 15 inch scrap of tin? Too “Complicated” or some pussy shit like that? Or did the DMV decide you weren’t sexy enough to own a license plate that said you were? I bet that’s it.
Yeah, that shit looks hot on my grill. So what if I’m driving a rusty Ford sedan? B*tches love the vanity license plate. Right? Right? RIGHT?
Blatant Burn Cruisers
What did you say the speed limit was, bro? 70? Dude, I’m doing 70! I’m going 95 mph easy. Oh shit, the speedometer only says 15! That’s crazy, bro!
Yeah, just drive around me.
Kid Whose Mom Drives Him Back To School
Maybe if I lean down a little lower in this seat I’ll fuse to the fabric. Oh god, she’s going for the Norah Jones CD. Why, why did my iPod have to die? This is f*cking agony. I should’ve gotten Mike to give me a ride back, I could’ve spared a dub of weed, what was I thinking, that totally qualifies as gas money, we even could’ve hotboxed on the way, f*ck.
Why the balls do I know the lyrics to this Norah Jones song?! AUGHHHH. Sh*t. A girl. There’s a girl in the next lane. I’m 20 years old and I might as well be in a booster seat because my goddamn mother is dr- ssh*t, she’s looking, duck!
F*ck this. Next time, I’ll take the bus.
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