By any definition one could come up with, my father is the worst backseat driver there is. One of those people who become physically ill at the thought of relinquishing control over a vehicle to anyone other than himself. He is not the greatest driver either, but frankly I’d rather put up with his constant tailgating than his constant bitching when he’s not allowed to drive.
This is why I had to question my own sanity when I myself suggested that we all go to dinner together Friday evening. Downtown. At 4:45. In my car. Understandably, I was excited to chauffeur. I had just gotten a new car and the folks had yet to ride in it. Still, zeal and enthusiasm were no match for the debilitating power of my father’s running commentary.
“Are we there yet?”
“Is this as fast as this thing goes?”
“Couldn’t you have bought something with more leg room? Maybe more head room? Maybe a V-6.”
“Don’t be such a coward, just muscle your way in there! Turn your blinker on and make them get the hell out of your way. We’ll be here all night at this rate!”
This tirade being punctuated by various appeals to God, Jesus, Mary, Joseph, and most major saints in a wide array of volumes, depending upon how close to death I had just apparently brought my family…all before we had even gone the five miles to the freeway.
Hmmm… YOU are uncomfortable with HIS tailgating?
Can I second that?