Tuesday, June 29, 2004

Easy rider’s raging bullshit

At last. With my 32nd year racing towards me like bugs to my windshield, I’ve finally passed my driving test. Second time’s the charm. The last (and first) time I took my driving test, was nigh on 18 months ago. Got round to it in the end. Can’t exactly expect Mrs. AKA to drive herself to the Maternity Ward when her waters broken, can I?

For my homeboys who remember my exploits from back in the day, this will no doubt amuse them greatly. Etched on their frontal lobes will be the memory of me slumped in the passenger seat, or splayed prostrate on the back seat, exhausted from nights of beer, Jack Daniel’s, movies, poker, porn, pizza or just sitting in someone’s living room until we could hear the birds outside. Clouding up their cars with an endless chain of Marlboro Reds, my left leg propped up on the dashboard. Hurling cassettes around and violently punching buttons on the tape deck until I could find just the right song. N.W.A.’s sonic soundscape pounding the bass until your eyes throbbed lightly in their sockets, James Brown rattling the windows, Chaka Khan on the verge of shattering glass, a Prince guitar-solo making stray cats run for cover.

I’m no-one’s favourite passenger, believe that. It’s a testament to my friends’ loyalty that they tolerated my more annoying ticks with broad shoulders, exhalations of resignation and very few mutterings of annoyance. Of course, I will now have to repay years of debt by driving them everywhere and anywhere they desire, if they dare to get into a car with such a notoriously malcoordinated eejit as me.

My long-suffering wife also finally gets to sleep on the ride home, instead of watching me mouth-breathing with my eyes slammed shut.

It's the end of an era, I tell you. Now I just need to buy a car…

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