As told to me by Dave, today we'll discuss the highway jockey. Traffic is moving--it's packed, but it's moving at speeds at or near the speed limit. Eventually you notice someone, usually in a rodded out rustbucket '82 Civic or something from when Nissan was called Datsun, covering your back end in traffic like he's got a tow line to you. Traffic slows in your lane, and highway jockey slides over into the next lane. Once traffic starts to slow in that lane, back to your lane he comes. This particular breed of dillhole also is unable to really step on the gas and get around you (because of his state-of-the art automotive engineering he's practicing his NASCAR skills in), so you're forced to basically live with him beside or behind you until one of you reaches the destination. He's definitely a few french fries short of a happy meal, because it never dawns on him that all this position changing really isn't earning him anything (except a beatdown). I'd love to play Mad Max on this little runt and smack his carbon-monoxide crapmobile about 40 yards clear of the road.