I hate people who drive 65 in the left lane of a two-lane highway. I mean I really, truly hate them with every fibrous strand of my very being. I hate them so much I want to burst out my front windshield and leap - gremlin style - onto the roof of their car and smash my hand through the metal, pull them up and out by their screaming hair and toss them onto the parched pavement.

It so would be worth the littering fine.

Also: there’s something I fancy doing while taking long road trips that makes the time just whiz on by. Sometimes while I’ll be driving in the fast lane at the speed of traffic I will witness the driver behind me leave our lane, proceed to speed up and then slide in front of me. I was already moving at the speed of traffic a few lengths back from the preceeding car, so this impatient instigator is not going even a tiny bit faster than he was while behind me. He has saved absolutely, positively no time whatsoever. But he has made a new mortal enemy for life.

It’s one thing to pass a person doing 60 in the fast lane a mile behind the next car. It is an entirely different pillowcase of marbles to haphazardly swerve in front of someone who is cruising along with the 85 mile-per-hour traffic.

So this filthy, no-good cutter becomes my new pet project.

It is now my singlular purpose in life - while completely disregarding all weather, fuel and bladder conditions - to get my automobile back in front of this Satan spawn. Using every opportunity at my disposal I will recklessly wedge my way into a position of silverback alpha male dominance, making sure that this person notices me do this so hopefully they’ll learn not to be such a terrifically huge Douche! in the future.

Is this practice of mine dangerous? Quite.

Reckless? Extremely.

Insanely, unbelievably rewarding? Oh, hell yes.