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Part Two: This One is Actually Sorta Good
Hello thar again. I like this essay better. I fit more humor into in it. Our prompt for this one was to write a non-fiction, minimum of two and a half paged essay that involved an experience we had with "cars." Here's what I came up with:

Stupidity and Cakman: An Essay On Cars

Regularly, for the past few months, it has been my job in the family to pick up Ryan, my younger brother, from John Jay when he finishes school. Our school district recently disbanded the late bus program for the sole purpose of annoying me, so I must now pick Ryan up whenever he finishes fillying about, doing whatever he does after class.

On the day of which I write, I recall that I had been in a particularly heated discussion online with AHR a dear female friend of mine. We had been having a Nerd-rage debate over which Internet Critic we personally found to be more humorous, with her arguing for The Nostalgia Critic, and me, The Angry Video Game Nerd. When I received the phone call from Ryan, it was just when our argument had hit its fever pitch.

As usual, Ryan was done with school, and ready to be picked up. Apparently, as Ryan told me, his squeaky teenage voice amassed with all the world-weary hatred and angst a 15 year-old middle-class white kid could muster, I was late for picking him up, and he had gone home with his friend instead, and, as such, I was now responsible for retrieving him from his friend’s house. I grudgingly agreed, and hung up the phone.

I share the story of my talking with AHR only to help portray my mindset at the time. As I had been forced to depart just as our debate had hit its zenith, I was still quite frustrated, not having fully gotten my stupid, pointless point out. I only had time to send AHR a brief “brb ryan.” Message, before running out to the car my parents allow me to use: a 2004 Chevy Venture. With a quick turn of the key, I was on my way to failure.

I found the house without too much trouble. This particular friend of Ryan’s was named Peter Carolini. He was in the same grade as Ryan, and they were good friends. I, however, have terrible facial recognition, and the only reason I remembered the location of the boy’s house was because of one of the boy’s noteworthy features: he only has one leg; a birth defect, I believe. But this sole memory of the gent was the only reason I was able to pick Ryan up in the first place.

After Ryan was buckled in and all, another spark of adrenaline shot through my circulatory system, along with a singular thought: If I could get home quickly, I could finish my debate with AHR. In fact, at this very notion, my mind became teeming with possibilities for possible debate points, or, at the very least, additional fallacies I could launch in the hopes that she wouldn’t notice.

Off of Peter’s road and onto Route 52 I turned. My brain was already tracing my path home in a crude version of a GPS. I’d drive down 52, turn onto Palin, turn onto 84, turn onto Creamery, turn onto Canterberry, turn into my driveway, and BAM: Defeat AHR in debate. My foot rested daintily on the gas pedal- even in dire circumstances (as this was, of course) I would not speed, especially not so close to a school. I know police officers practically troll those grounds in the hopes of picking off idiot students who think their convenience is more important than everyone else’s safety.

Just as I passed the local Soccer field, I happened to glance ahead, seeing the bright, green hue on the traffic light a ways ahead, welcoming me, beckoning me forward. “Go home,” it said, “Go home and defeat your nefarious girlfriend. Show her that your opinions are obviously more legitimate than hers.” I squinted a bit, acknowledging that I currently had a purpose in life, and would stop at nothing to complete it. And then the traffic light turned yellow.

I must pause my musings for a moment now to offer a bit of an explanation to these circumstances. I was still a good 10-20 yards away from the white line when that light turned yellow. I had more than enough time to halt my car. Halting the car, in fact, would be the proper choice in that situation. I do not detest traffic laws in any way like some of the other teenagers my age do. I don’t see police officers as burdens or bullies. And, in fact, I don’t think I can really sit here and defend the actions that I took that day. I was pretty much just being an asshole. And it didn’t help my mental state when I saw as I rapidly approached the point of no return that there was a police car right on the other side of the stoplight, already stopped for the red light on his side.

Needless to say, I was a tad panicked; my mind set ablaze at the sight of the bluish-black and white vehicle. Just as I noticed the car, its officer clearly visible, ready, alert, and curious through its front windshield, I slammed on the breaks. I was going about 25-35 miles per hour at the time.

My car began to argue with the laws of physics. The break system in my car clearly felt that forward momentum was being too pushy, and was setting its foot down on where it felt I should be allowed to stop. Physics, on the other hand, was taking the route of science, arguing that simply jamming my foot haphazardly into the brake pedal did non constitute the necessary slowdown for such a stop. Physics won.

The Chevy Venture let out a banshee wail as its internal systems had a panic attack. The front of the car wobbled like a meth addict, and the road was treated with a delightful new facial of tire rubber. Ryan, sitting adjacent to me, gripped the armrest and cursed quite loudly. The car slid, its unmoving tires seemingly not mattering much to the black ice on the road. We car-sled for a few yards. It would have been fun if a police officer had not actively been glaring at me for the fool I was. It finally came to rest smack-dab in the middle of the four-way intersection, a point at which I had no choice but to take my foot off the break and continue on. I looked to the police car as I passed it, seeing the officer only shake his head, probably annoyed that he had to bother pulling me over now.

I got to John Jay before his siren lights went off. My confrontation with the officer was actually rather brief. He simply looked at me and shook his head, both of us sharing a moment of intimate understanding of what a non-thinking buffoon I was. To this day, I am still awaiting my trial date, and while I plan to plead not guilty, a verdict I hope to obtain by blaming black ice, I think that my adventure that day taught me a valuable lesson about driving; one that I’ll keep with me as I grow into adulthood, and one I will teach children when I too become a miserly old person: Don’t be an asshole. Seriously.

Also, when I finally arrived home, AHR swept the floor with me in our debate, demolishing any and all points I brought up with reckless, logical, abandon. So there’s that.

16th Feb '11 10:57:46 AM flag for mods
This was a really funny paper. I loved how you kind of achieved an Arson Murdera And Jaywalking type of thing by ending with AHR instead of your accident. They should read this in drivers' ed classes, because it is a thousand times more interesting and believable than the crappy videos they show in there.
cheeseypoofs 19th Mar 11
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