This morning, I was a rebel. A punk rocker. Like other punk rockers, driving to work in their Cadillacs, listening to their punk rock on premium satellite radio, commuting to their desk jobs, wearing slacks and sweaters, I was a punk.
The only problem was that I didn't feel very punk. In order to really be a punk one must be angry, one must be a rebel. The I was hit with a stroke of genius! Thanks to the politically correct age we live in, I had the perfect way to express my rebelliousness! I would throw off my shackles of fuel economy! When the next stop light turned green, I let my accelerator foot sink all the way to floor.
The car was stunned. It paused in disbelief. It probably wondered if I had completely lost my composure. I had. After reflecting on the oddity of the moment for a few seconds, the car roared into compliance. Well, it roared as much as a twelve year old family sedan can roar.
As we accelerated, I stared in disbelief at the fuel gauge. It was mobile! My wallet started to ache in my back pocket. All too soon, I reached the speed limit of 35 miles per hour and let my foot slacken. No use in getting a speeding ticket. I'm not that punk.