Dear 5HZ4X2,

I’m driving right behind you. Despite the fact that my car is twice the size of your little piece of shit black Mercedes you probably don’t even know I’m there because you’re too busy typing inconsequential text messages to people who don’t believe that you’re as important as you think you are.

Put the crackberry away. Otherwise the next time you hit the brakes I swear I’m going to hit you. I’m going to ram the back of your car as hard as I can just because you’re pissing me off and I haven’t had my coffee yet.

Then you can send a message to your mom, telling her that you can’t make it to Aunt Gene’s 57th birthday party at the Olive Garden because nobody in Los Angeles knows how to drive.

Texting and driving should be against the law. I don’t know why it isn’t. But deep down part of me wants you to run down a little kid who is waiting for the school bus just so I know that you’ll go to prison and get anally raped by a six-foot seven black man named Angel.

Yours truly,

5H4MV2

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