Right Lane Ends

You know when lanes go like this?:



What, exactly, is the thinking behind that? Are the planners envisioning some idyllic, utopian world where people will yield and merge one by one while beaming and singing operatic arias? Did they not realize that, in the real world, this type of set-up is an open invitation for assholes to keep the pedal to the floor and go screaming right up to the very end of the ending lane and then gesture helplessly to everyone else to let them in because OOPS! there's suddenly no more road! While the people in the other lane who have dutifully waited to be able to proceed sit there viewing the over-entitled instant-gratification-seeking asshats on the right with an icy hatred that threatens to bubble over into murderous rage at any second, resulting in an unspeakably grisly inside-outing of steel, fibre glass and Standard Canadian Jerk-Brain.

Or maybe that's just me?

Are you a wait-er or a speed-er to the front of the ending lane? Am I being oversensitive and intolerant? I am distressingly susceptible to road rage, for such a mild-mannered individual (snort). I always wonder what's going through the minds of people who pull this trick -- is there a possibility that they're NOT all inconsiderate shitheads? Do they just need a little love and understanding? Is this actually the way it's supposed to be done? Is it just my insipid little rule-follower persona that leads me to stay demurely in the left lane, letting everyone ram their way in front of me? Should I free myself to become a blaze-to-the-front beeyotch?

Ain't gonna happen. And those meatheads who keep pressing their luck squeaking by my front bumper? Squeak at your own risk. You're in imminent and grave danger of being sworn at. Well, berated severely without excessive profanity, if my kids are in the van. You've been warned.

And now, to distract you from the navel-gazing inconsequentiality of this post, a bright shiny Funny Eve Story:

Last night Eve came home from Farm Camp full of stories about brushing calves, feeding cows, documenting the bathroom habits of various farm animals and who got how many cubes of cantaloupe. She spent the evening while Angus was at baseball practice rearranging her room and making shelves out of kleenex boxes (I'm conflicted: I'm all for recycling and reusing, but man, kleenex shelves are really ugly). Angus came home with a friend from baseball who was sleeping over and I said I'd make popcorn for everyone. Our microwave is really, really old. If I have to pop two bags of popcorn in a row (yes, sometimes I feed my kids fake chemi-corn, I'll say ten Hail Marys and make a donation to Greenpeace later as soon as I'm done this) the microwave has to have a little nap - the display goes blank for a while, then pops back up as if nothing ever happened. And yes, we ARE the kind of people who manage to convince ourselves that this is a perfectly normal way for an appliance to behave -- we hate shopping that much. So Eve came down for her popcorn and asked me to put some butter on it. I explained the situation with the microwave and told her it should be working again in a few minutes, and she went away. A few minutes later, I saw that the display was on again so I called upstairs:

Me: "Eve, do you have any popcorn left?"
Eve: "Yeah."
Me: "Bring it down here then."
Eve: "Why?"
Me: (in an exasperated tone, as she walks down into the kitchen) "Whydya THINK? You just asked me for butter on your popcorn and then I tell you to bring your popcorn back? I mean seriously -- aren't you supposed to be the smart one?" (it came out less mean in real life).
Eve: (haughtily, after having the butter poured onto her popcorn): "Well...I will leave with my pride AND my popcorn." (starts to leave, turns back while looking at the kitchen counter): "...and, if I'm allowed, can I also leave with some mini-Oreos?"