A thesis on the hypothetic analysis of one Telecommuter's take on the possibility of road rage as an historically emoted form of hostility expressed in an unpredictable environment of flux and misplaced V-8, fuel injected anger which is both outmoded and bad-mooded.
...Why am I qualified to expound so egregiously on "Road Rage?" I am a telecommuter. I sit on my duff all the day long and gaze laconically out at the sky as we ride this wild juggernaut called Earth through a universe of nom de plume in retrograde. And, I don't even know what "laconic" means. I think it is a town in New Hampshire where Bikers meet once a year and tear it up emotionally amongst themselves in ritualistic mayhem meant to delight their inner selves and create a bond of kinship with others of the same ilk. Hey!, that might be it,...a slogan..."Laconic, where road rage was born." I can see it. These rough hewn New Hampshire Yankees...quiet in their way, stoic in demeanor....nestled in the foothills...invaded once a year by those boisterous leather clad two wheeled warriors intent on recapturing youth or holding onto same. Yankee / Biker...an oxymoron! An undilutable suspension in sociological terms...Scads and scads of pilgrims and natives, milling and cruising and only one single measly narrow road through the middle of Laconic. Volatile, yet an incomprehensible concessional business opportunity for the entrepreneurial type that faithfully reads the Midcoast Business Monthly. Imagine if you will, chrome cart laden with baked bean suppers to travel and leather vests.
...I guess that I'm not only a telecommuter, but must also be a comedic moral philosopher. I am a telecommuter to earn enough money and a comedic moral philosopher because you can sit down and do it while making money at being the other. It takes up so little room in your house, too. The human condition is laughable as any of us philosophic telecommuters can tell you. If you have read anything at all of marginal utility then you know what I am talking about. If you haven't, then I'm with you. Don't try to make sense of it all. Be at one with fertility.
...It used to be you could shout out the car window and make weird gestures through the windshield at other drivers for any of the petite indiscretions they may have possibly faux-pas'd upon you and nothing would come of it other than a great adrenaline surge that would keep you pumped for a mile and seven sixteenth. Now the offended driver shoots you, point blank, keeping you pumped up full of lean for many many miles. That's road rage. I blame this on political correctness, but if I expound on such, the politically correct would have me morally '"offed." My favorite takes on road rage were acutely obvious in "Mad Max" or "The Road Warrior"...Whoa!. I'd like to see some buffed teal chino upscalian dude tell Mel Gibson to slow down on the four lane and have respect for his fellow/fellette juggernauts or suffer the dire consequences of being reported to the authorities. hahahahahahahahahahaha.
...new paragraph. Oh yeah, telecommuting. It may be a misnomer in my particular instance. I do usually traverse the Turnpike and Interstates to the Corporation once a week to provide myself with some contact with other human beings other than moi. I leave home at 3 am EST...not much road rage here, though I do earnestly worry about the possibility of some forlorn rutting moose mistaking my headlights for the molten passion gaze of a co-mingly playmate while I inadvertently bear down at 65 MPH, cup of scalding hot tea in hand about to touch my lips. Two hundred eighty two miles round trip...in one day...divided by 5...and that's the equivalent of a days worth of normal commuting ...and I come up with, (reaching for calculator) ...56.4 miles a day equivalency. That's a lot of miles for a guy that works at home.
...In conclusion, I propose that my research elements show conclusively that some form of mutant anger does exist in one form or another on the Midcoast's byways and manifests itself in forms not unlike or unique to other culture's, the only difference being that in locales other than this one it is wholly possible to get to where you are going from where you presently are, thus diminishing the white heat frustration brought on by constant disorientation with regard to one's sojournular goals.
...A farmer from down Texas way comes up to study how things are done in Maine. This Yankee farmer is showing her layout to the Texan. "My property extends to the south to where that stand of white pines is over yonder and to the west where that dirt road cuts through the brush...To the north I'm bounded by the highway there and to the east, the ocean." The Texan brags "Why I can get in my car at sun up and not reach the end of my property till after sundown." The Mainer says to him, "Geez, I know how ya feel, I had me a car like that one time."