Women and the Wheel

DISCLAIMER! To females and Presbyterians: THIS POST IS NOT MEANT TO BE TAKEN SERIOUSLY! Enjoy!

I'm madder than a NASCAR racer with square wheels over this claptrap that women are just as safe behind the wheel as the only people who ought to be driving: red-blooded American MEN!

I've replayed the car crash I was in this weekend over and over again in my head. For those of you who don't know, I was sitting at a stoplight on Friday night, minding my own business, when suddenly I heard I loud crash and everything went black for a split second. I opened my eyes. Thinking rapidly, I realized that the reason my neck was hurting was because of whiplash. Then it occurred to me what had happened. Some fool rear-ended me!

With a newfound sense of mortality, I flicked on the emergency lights and looked over my shoulder at the driver of the other car. Her eyes, for I'm sure you've already guessed it was a girl that slammed into my completely stopped car, were wide with worry. She followed me into the parking lot of a nearby apartment complex.

I hopped out, assessed the damage, then walked over to her car. Knowing that stressful situations are only made worse when people are hopping mad, I assumed an air of deep concern as I stooped by her window and asked, "Are you okay?! Oh, I'm so glad you're all right!"

I was met with the following words:

"I am so sorry. I wasn't even paying attention. My mind was in a million other places."

Of course it was! Folks, driving is a privilege, not a right. I shudder to think what would have happened had that ding-bat been driving one of those gas-guzzling SUVs. I realize the ladies like to drive those things to feel "safer" because it makes them bigger than everybody else on the road, but let's think about this: When a woman is sitting in a car, the seat all snug and cozy, the air nice and warm, soft music playing, a toasty mocha latte in her hand, and the pretty scenery racing by, what is she most likely to do?

That's right! Snuggle up and go to sleep! Or put on make-up!

As I write this there's an army of mini-tanks being driven by emotional and unstable females who are more interested in primping and keeping their eyes on their hair, rather than where they should be keeping 'em; on the poor Joe they just squashed under their two-ton wheels!

If I had my way, women who want to buy one of those Death-UVs would be required to participate in a special class that would evaluate their driving before the salesman handed them the keys.

It would be similar to a monster-truck rally only better. The women would have to drive around a fairly straightforward obstacle course full of fluffy critters like bunnies and squirrels. Then we'd get some really big truck, like that Big Foot from the 1980s, to chase after them while their husbands sit in the stands and rate their driving skills. If she can get through the course without swerving off the road to mourn for Little Bunny Foo-Foo or try to talk to about her feelings, she's okay in my book.

And if she doesn't pass the test, she would forfeit her license for a whole year and only let her husband drive. If she's not married, she'll have to walk or take the bus or hire somebody to drive her around. Unemployment would decrease and it would give our economy the much-needed shot in the arm it needs to get itself back on track.

Mark my words, after experiencing Forky's Monster-Truck driving test, she'll know how the rest of us guys feel when we see her careening down the highway in six-passenger vehicle with herself as the sole passenger. She'll think twice before saying, "No, honey, let me drive."

And I wouldn't have to get myself a new bumper!

These women are right where they belong: in the back seat!