COLUMN: We don’t care if there’s a baby on board, we’re still going to send a text message

The other day while driving, I thought about driving, not the driving I was doing at that moment – explains why I almost took out a semi carrying frozen pizzas – but driving in general, the particularly weird things about driving, and how if I was actually thinking about the driving I was doing I would probably be the only driver on the road doing so. Damn. I was going to write this whole column in one sentence and use the word driving 100 times. Maybe next time.

People do some weird things to distract themselves from their driving.

It’s like, as a society, we’re bored to death by the idea of hurling ourselves and our two-ton death machines down the road at 85 mph. Being surrounded by a bunch of dangerous, half-conscious morons replicating our behavior just doesn’t give us the rush of adrenalin produced by elegantly toeing the edge of sanity and safety. Nope, we have to up the degree of difficulty. Go fakie or switch-a lame X-Games reference, but I hear the kids today are into that extreme sports stuff.

We feel the need to throw in some extra flair to our normally mundane driving experiences. Texting or talking on the phone would be bad enough by themselves, but that’s barely scratching the surface.

I once saw a lady folding her lacy underwear while navigating rush hour traffic. What kind of world do we live in if a person doesn’t have time to wait to get to their home to fold their unmentionables? Maybe it’s the breakneck pace of society. I bet she was just bored. Or maybe she was just trying to sex up her commute, spice up I-15 traffic?

And if that was her intent, she’s even more dangerous than I thought.

Not only is the folding of her leopard-print thong distracting her from the road, but she’s making it impossible for the male drivers around her to think about anything but her underwear and what’s underneath it.

So instead of focusing on his lane change – checking his mirrors, his blind spot, signaling, all that good driver’s ed stuff – the guy in the Camry is daydreaming about swimming in a sea of her lace panties. The guy will inevitably maneuver his silver sedan right into the back quarter panel of a Chevy truck driven by another man thinking about Victoria Secret instead of defensive driving.

That, kids, is how a single pair of boyshorts or one low rise bikini can cause a 10-car pile up. Thongs and more sexy, exotic underwear would probably cause a lot more damage.

If a guy was folding his crusted, hole-filled boxer briefs, he’d probably cause an accident, too – but for a very different reason. All the vomiting going on around him would make the road slick, causing a semi full of laundry detergent – wouldn’t that be appropriate? – to lose control and jack knife into oncoming traffic. The lesson: Don’t fold and drive.

But it’s not just underwear.

I’ve also heard of girls painting their toenails while driving. First, that’s shows some talent and flexibility. Managing the pedals with one foot while the other one is resting on the dash with cotton balls between the toes getting a candy apple red paint job is quiet a feat – Get it? That’s a bad pun, but that’s all I’ve got.

Just to let you in on what kind of terrible jokes I’ve been thinking of today, here’s one: Somebody asked me how to spell sorority, and after a minute, I said, “I don’t know. It’s all Greek to me.” That sentence may be the stupidest thing I’ve ever written. I apologize, but I felt compelled to share.

Back to the main topic, which – correct me if I’m wrong – was driving. I’ll try to stay on course from now on, but I can’t make any promises.

Girls, painting your toenails while driving, or preparing for swimsuit season by giving yourself a bikini wax in the fast lane – imagine the rubbernecking and eventual carnage that would cause – is just terribly irresponsible. But I’m not picking on the ladies in the audience – guys do some stupid things, too.

A lot of times it involves violent headbanging or manic air guitaring. I’m guilty of both. I’ve almost crashed several times because I was in a ferocious air guitar session. What am I supposed to do when “Panama” comes on the radio? Softly nod my head? Gently sway back and forth? Keep my hands glued at 10 and 2 rather than imitating Eddie’s artificial harmonics?

Also, more than once, I’ve seen a guy shaving while driving. Given, he had an electric razor, but it’s still dangerous. You’re a real bad ass if you can drive down the highway at a healthy clip – we’ll say 75 – while shaving with a disposable Bic razor and not cut yourself at all. I’d filet my Adam’s apple, and, blinded by the blood rain, cause at least a substantial disturbance in the flow of traffic.

But with all this shaving and brushing of teeth and painting toenails, one has to wonder, when did the car become a bathroom? Are we going to hook up a water supply, heat it using the engine block, and have a movable, massaging shower head installed? Maybe hang a loofah off of the rear-view mirror? I can see it now, just a bunch of geeks steering 70-mph torpedoes of doom with their knees because one hand is busy lathering up and the other is rinsing – all these cars just leaving a trail of soapy water and little body hairs that somehow make it through the drain installed in the floorboards.

Henry Ford would @#$% a brick. The car became a dining room and – with the installation of DVD players – an entertainment center a long time ago, but aren’t there limits to this madness? In the age of Tila Tequila, I fear no level of outlandish stupidity seems sacred.

-da.bake@aggiemail.usu.edu