Bubba’s Got A Cell Phone

I thought I had finally conquered my rage over the Bubbas who occupy the left hand lane of the roads traveling at the speed limit minus 5 or 10 mile per hour. I was wrong.

Each day I venture into the wakening world while the sun still sleeps. At that time of day there are only 3 types of people on the road – crazies like me who try to beat the traffic; crazies who are driving home from the late shift which they work to avoid the traffic; and Bubbas who constitute the majority of the traffic.

Attempting to travel on the road with Bubbas is an adventure in frustration which leads to the creation of language used to coerce them out of your way. It never works. I have seen every form of Bubba vehicle and all of their paraphernalia – the grills, the tool boxes, the lawn furniture, and all the rest. They all lead me to the verge of insanity or homicide.

This past Monday, in a hurry to get to work, I saw the road ahead of me clear for cruising. I was about 5 miles into my travel when I came upon a nice looking pick up truck with the paint job still intact. It was in the left lane but it lacked all semblance of Bubbaness.

With closeness comes clarity. I was getting close enough to recognize unmistakable indicators. He had the truck. He drove in the left hand lane at less than the speed limit. He leaned to the right making it appear that he was almost driving from the middle of the truck. He was out early. He was oblivious. The back of his truck had one of those new snap down covers which most likely hid the Bubba paraphernalia. The signs were there. This driver was clearly a Bubba. Not a normal Bubba, but a Bubba with a cell phone.

It was dark outside and a bit foggy so my lights were on. He should be able to see them in his rear view mirror and notice that someone was behind him at which point he should be courteous and move to the right hand lane. Nice thought, but that works only if he looks up at this rear view mirror. He continued to talk on the phone and drive.

He didn’t use one of the suggested head sets which are obviously an affront to the manhood of all Bubbas. He held the phone in his right hand, talked and drove.

I was unfortunate enough to get behind him with 18 miles to travel. He drove and talked. I got closer. He continued to talk. We stopped at red lights. He talked. My car, having an automatic transmission moved forward as each light turned green. He talked while his truck lurched forward indicating that he was driving a manual transmission vehicle. His hands never left the cell phone. I’m not sure I want to know how he was shifting gears. Light after light, lurch after lurch I followed him down the road.

Each time I thought I could get around him, some law abiding do-gooder slowed down in the right hand lane thwarting my attempts at freedom. When his conversation took on an animated tone, which could be recognized by gestures from both of his hands, I began creating words in earnest. Even combining non-related words to make them sound evil and curse-like had no effect. Well at least not on the Bubba, they did allow me to vent a bit of my frustration in a most creative way.

He talked. I fumed. He waved in the air. I cursed. He was oblivious. I was irate. He was in no particular hurry. I was. He was in my way. I wanted to blow him off the road. He continued to talk. I wanted to know the name and location of the Bubba he was talking to.

As we neared the small town 13 miles into my journey, Bubba slowed even more, but never put the cell phone down. He also never used his turn signal to indicate my freedom. He finally eased into a turn lane and out of my way. At last sighting Bubba was gliding into the drive-thru at the local McDonalds, cell phone in hand, oblivious to the rest of the world.