The world moves too slow for Mr. Fasty. He is always in a hurry, always has the pedal to the polyester. If it means getting there 30 seconds faster, he will push his car harder. You are too slow for Mr. Fasty. It doesn’t matter if you’re in the passing lane doing 10 over or stopped dead at a light waiting for a left arrow: Mr. Fasty means to pass-y, and he’ll tell you so through tailgating, honking, passing on the right, or passing on the shoulder. The cops never see Mr. Fasty, because the light leaving his car will not reach them for several years.
Hold your horses there, buckeroo. The Slowpoke is here to tell you that you needn’t be in such a big damn hurry. What is there waiting for you that couldn’t be put off a bit? In taking things easy, being so Type B that he slides over into C, The Slowpoke will drive as far under the speed limit as Mr. Fasty flouts it. Highways startle The Slowpoke into deerlike shock, causing him to pause on the onramp to look for predators. Semis also spook The Slowpoke, and he enjoys taking a long deep breath and a meditative pause before proceeding through a stale green light.
Jumpin’ Lane Jack
Predictability is the enemy of Jumpin’ Lane Jack. He’s always weaving and dodging, ducking and bobbing, looking for his next hustle. If he thinks another lane will be faster, or more interesting, or offer prettier oil stains, he’ll change in a second. Weaving more than a carpet maker, Jack doesn’t have time for frills like turn signals and mirror checking. If you’re in his way, it’s your job to fix that, even if he’s cutting across 6 lanes of traffic to make a sharper left turn than Bernie Sanders.
Blocky McGee’s dream of being a pro lineman may have died in high school, but the blockin’ urge is still in his blood. He loves nothing more than to match speeds with a car in the other lane and act as a blood clot in our nation’s arteries, gumming up miles of traffic at a stroke. Left-hand turns are also a rare opportunity for Blocky to use the full length of their car to cut off multiple lanes of traffic, or to leave a generous section of their tush peeking out of a turn lane. Blocky is never more at home than when he is sitting in the middle of an intersection after a red, blocking all opposing traffic forever. Watch out for his cousin Blinky McGee as well, a man for whom blinkers only cease when the car is towed to the junkyard.
A car is not a car for Mr. Banderas. Rather, it is a phone booth, a movie theater, a makeup cabinet, a hair salon, a restaurant, a nursery. Life in all its unfairness has dictated that he must drive; very well. But Mr. Banderas will not let that stop him from doing what is neccessary: gossip, The Fast and the Furious 7, foundation, cowlick wrangling, Taco Bell, Distractio Junior. The road will alter itself to suit his whims, and if it does not, at least he will die doing what he loves: texting Cheryl about how he is not doing anything tonight.