"Do the [EXPLITIVE] speed limit, you [EXPLITIVE]ing [EXPLITIVE]hole!" he screamed as he zipped past me in his [approximately] 90's Honda hatchback. His front-end suggested he'd recently been in some sort of collision, and the orange paint was blistered and peeling in several places. As he accelerated past me, I could tell he had one of those fancy exhaust pipes, because his vehicle sounded like it was having a gaseous bowel movement. He waved from his window as he got in front to continue on, though he seemed to have some sort of physical impediment which prevented him from extending all but one of his fingers. Perhaps his recent accident caused a hand injury.
As I am a passionate person myself, I appreciated his enthusiasm. I cheerfully waved back and looked down at my speedometer. "You know," I thought to myself, "he's right!" So I eased up on the throttle and slowed down to the posted 25 MPH speed limit in the clearly-marked no-passing neighborhood zone.
