It’s a pleasant sunny Sunday afternoon and the families are out on the freeways, some going shopping, visiting friends, others are on their way to spend some peaceful time at the beach. Drivers are being careful by correctly signalling their intentions, checking their blind spots before changing lanes, slowing down to let other drivers in. Children are playing in the backseat, their parents are singing along to their favourite tunes on the radio. All is well.
Until….
The bogan enters the flow of traffic, turns the stereo up so that everyone can hear its fully sick sub playing the latest mad dance track, swerving erratically across three lanes. Armed with a racist bumper sticker, high visibility vest and a ciggy and fuelled with a large can of Monster Energy and a sausage roll from a local servo, the bogan puts its foot down on the gas pedal and veers into a tiny gap between the two cars travelling innocently beside him. The purpose of this circus is usually the statistically negligible possibility of arriving one and half minutes earlier that it would have otherwise, just in time to watch a game of footy either on its large plasma TV or down the pub with the rest of the ‘boyz’.
I have lost count of how many times I have found myself being either annoyed at the arrogance of some drivers or plain scared for my life when getting literally pushed off the road by morons. My car especially ‘enjoyed’ getting hit from behind by a fully sick ute driven by a morbidly drunk young bogan on a footy Grand Final day last year. After having a good, long chat with the police straight after the accident (the guy left the scene before police got there), all I got was “sorry, there’s not much we can do. These idiots are everywhere”. At first I was disappointed, but soon after, the disappointment turned into anger. And that’s when I made the promise to myself that next time a bogan decides to play a maxtreme stunt driver, using my car as a prop, a pair of bogan testicle earrings will be added to my jewellery collection.
Emotions aside, the fact remains - when the bogan is behind the wheel, its main priority is the endangerment not only of itself, but also every other road user in the vicinity. Apart from seeing any road as its own elaborate race track, designed exclusively for its life-threatening manoeuvres, the bogan, as I have mentioned before, also gets an incredible rush from saving those precious 90 seconds on a journey. While the bogan generally doesn’t engage in many critically important activities and tends to render missed deadlines irrelevant, when on the road it is always in an urgent hurry. Stop signs are usually ignored and when it is unable to run the red light due to a line of perpendicular traffic, it will quickly assess the car next to it for a potential drag race when the light goes green.
A bogan is entitled to break as many road rules as it wishes, but usually criticises the actions of other road users, even when the actions involve driving safely and correctly. If someone merges into a lane in front of a bogan, the results will depend on a number of factors, such as the presence of personalised number plates, how badly it wants to go to the local shopping centre and degree to which the offending motorist is perceived to be Asian. If the bogan feels only slightly provoked, it will usually either engage its horn, or scream from inside the car and make obscene gestures. Unfortunately, the bogan is only ever seconds away from an episode of road rage. If anger levels become too high, the maxtremely tough road warrior will emerge from its 1.2 tonnes of steel and glass castle in a blind fury. It will then proceed to lure the other driver out of their car with its elaborate tribal roadside dance, which usually involves kicking door panels and spitting. It will then return to its car and speed off into the distance (the next set of traffic lights 200 metres up the road). When booked for road ranging, speeding or going around roundabouts on two wheels, the bogan will get vocal and madly furious about such complex political issues as “the nanny state” and “revenue raising”, giving, in its opinion, a fairly plausible justification “I pay me fuckin’ rego!”. Further justifications will include something on the lines of…
“I was drivin’ me fuckin’ new yellow V8 yoot along the freeway the other day, and there was this prick in a little fuckin’ small car drivin’ along my lane doin’ only the fuckin’ speed limit! Not even five k’s over, like what you’re supposed to do in the right hand lane. It should have got over into the small car lane where all the other small cars and Camrys and shit were doin’ less than the limit. The right lane’s for us people that have proper fuckin’ yoots and V8s and shit so we can overtake them shit cars. Not for them nancy girly cars what come from fuckin’ Yoorop or fuckin’ Japan. If yer car’s not a proper fuckin’ Aussie Chev-ro-lett, then you should just fuck off back to whatever fuckin’ country your carnty little car comes from.
So anyway, this carnt was drivin’ along in the right hand lane, only doing the limit, and not a proper bit over like what you’re supposed to do in the right lane. So I thought I’d give him a bit of a hint about how much of a carnt that deserved a glassin’ he was, so I got right up close behind him where I could proper dazzle him when I flashed the yoots lights at him, and where that carnt could see the finger sign I flipped at him all proper. And you know what? The fuckin’ carnt slowed down! I mean, he eventually got outta my way when the cars in the other lane went past, but shit, he coulda sped up and gone in front of the other cars, rather than slowed me down. Fuckin’ carnt.
Anyway, I the little carnt got outta my way, so I proper opened the yoot up to make up the lost time. And you know what fuckin’ happened? There was a fuckin speed camera out there. Fuckin’ got flashed. I wanted to get out and give the bastard with the camera a good fuckin’ glassin’ for bein’ a revenue raisin’ carnt. Now, I reckon’ I was only doin’ about 15 over the limit, so it’s just blatant fuckin’ revenue raisin’ – and the bloody camera wasn’t in a location they’d mentioned on the seven noos last night, so I reckon I shouldn’t havta pay the revenue raisin’ carnts. Did I say how them fuckin’ revenue raisin’ carnts are bloody un-Orstrayan in what they rip money off rool Aussie battlers?”
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