A couple of weeks ago, I was driving in a procession from a funeral home to a cemetery to attend a graveside service. A standard rule of thumb, especially in the south, is that if you see a funeral procession approaching, you pull over and stop. At the very least, you slow down.
Never, under any circumstances, barring an actual emergency, do you interrupt the line. And it’s pretty clear that this line of a few dozen cars (all with headlights on, the lead cars with caution lights on, and the local chief of police leading the way as we collectively run the only stop sign in the area) was a funeral procession.
The route we took required us, right after the aforementioned stop sign, to drive through a stretch of four-lane highway. All of the vehicles in our procession stuck to the left lane, very clearly staying in our procession formation.
But this one random jack ass, this mother fucker in a late nineties black Ford Mustang, decides that he can’t be bothered to wait, so as the four lane draws to an end, rather than let the procession pass, he cuts right into the middle of it, literally forcing his way in, nearly causing a wreck, and rides along with us for the next 6 or 7 miles until we turn off towards the cemetery. Then stands out like a sore thumb, looking like the ass he is while thirty odd cars turn right, and he hits the gas staying straight on the highway.
You, you sorry piece of shit, can go fuck yourself. That car you cut off was my dad’s. We were all on the way to go bury his sister. You fail at being human. If you don’t have enough knowledge and maturity to know not jump into the middle of a funeral procession, you damn well shouldn’t be driving.
I hope that from now until the end of highways, your headliner hangs down just enough to constantly tickle the top of your head, making you think there’s a spider in your hair.