We were busting a P/T land speed record of maybe 65 when Mike began yelling at me. He said I was ticking off the drivers who were performing a Joey Chitwood weave around him at 75 and 80 miles per hour. He said that I was giving them dirty looks out the back window. Like, maybe my eyes being pulled deep into their sockets’ in a paralyzed scream of fear, was the reason they were upset. He ought to be grateful that after Ben stored me on his knee for three minutes, I was empty. The back of his bald bean was an easy target. Maybe he should realize that just because the signs say Maximum 65 MPH, going faster with the crowd would make a world of freaking smiles. So what if you get a ticket! Just a few moments in a Utah traffic school and all is forgiven. Easier than a Catholic confession.
Thank goodness I am writing this because my voice is gone after releasing blood-curdling screams as he dodged mini vans whipping out from the Wal-Mart exit at Mach 2. From here on, I drive. Penguins' may not have good peripheral vision, but at least they have an excuse. I may not eat for a week.
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