Here’s a surefire way to prevent suicide by truck.
When you see my turn signal, I’m telling you that I’m either making a turn, or making a lane change. You knew that already, right? But lean over here and listen to me real good.
I’m telling you – not asking you for permission – that I’m going to make that turn or lane change.
Hear me? I’m not being the rear end of a horse, I’m not trying to make you late for work or dinner or (gasp!) American Idol, I’m just telling you I’m doing something. There’s a reason for it. Maybe there’s a cop writing a ticket on the shoulder, maybe there’s a broken down bus full of nuns taking blind kids to the orphanage on the shoulder, maybe there’s another vehicle coming down the on-ramp that we – you and I – both need to get away from. Maybe it’s an ambulance or fire truck, or maybe it’s a cop in hot pursuit of a desperado. Driving a truck is alot like trying to thread a log chain through a gnat’s rear end. Be patient, give me enough room, I’ll get out of your way as soon as I can.
Your other option is to try to squeeze in that spot where I’m heading. If I was you, I wouldn’t try that. Even when my truck is empty, it weighs 30,000 lbs. When loaded, it weighs up to 80,000 lbs. Your car probably weighs less than 5,000 lbs. If things go wrong, and I drive over the top of you, you’ll be what the paramedics call DRT: Dead Right There.
Or you’ll hit me in the rear end. That one’s gonna hurt you alot worse than it hurts me too. If you live through it, you’ll probably soil your diaper, if you know what I mean, before we come to a stop. You’ll get a ticket for tailgating. If I live through it – and I most likely will – it could cause me to spill my coffee in my lap. You don’t want to be trading insurance info with me while I’m nursing scalded daddy parts. Even worse if you’ve soiled your diaper. I hate the smell of poo during rush hour.
Remember this: a turn signal on a tractor trailer means I’m making a turn, or making a lane change. Maybe I just forgot to turn it off, but no sense taking that chance. If you force me to pick between running over you, or running over that bus full of nuns taking blind kids to the orphanage, then you’re a goner. It’s not personal, it’s just a choice. The same kind of choice you have when you’re coming up behind me, and my blinker is on.
Be safe, and y’all have a good ride that-a-way.
