There we were, driving down Fremont. I thought everything was fine until you gestured wildly in your rearview mirror at me. Perhaps you wanted to warn me of a cop coming up fast? Or maybe you were gesturing to take a right so you could treat me to some pie at Shari's? As I pulled up beside you and you reached your whole arm across your SUV to get that stubby lil finger of yours as close to me as possible, I realized there'd been a misunderstanding. Here I was, driving a whole car length behind you going 40 mph, with ample space to stop if a squirrel jumped in front of you. Yet you, dear Portlander, you thought that since I wasn't a whole 5 cars lengths behind you I was on your ass. I don't know how y'all learn to drive out here, but a car length ain't tailgating. It's driving, just driving. Oh and one more thing: y'alls sad attempt to brake check is cute, but it'll never work. Brake checks only work when you're filled with the kind of rage that comes from driving in a real city with real assholes; it's the kind of tactic that works because you're so filled with vitriol you want to be rear ended just so you have an excuse to punch somebody in the mouth and make 'em buy you a new car. Sorry but y'all lack that nerve out here.
Five Car Lengths Or It's Tailgating
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