Courtesy of Tani, we have today's tome:

I recently had a job change. This job change now involves me in driving through civilization for a change, and while it was fun driving with the bumkins, well, there's a reason why you don't live in Oz, but leave as fast as you can. This means that I have the commuter travel and in the Twin Cities area, this means that I get to drive the back-alley known as Interstate 394.

394 is like a box of chocolates. You never know when you're testing your acceleration from 0 to 70 or your brakes from 70 to 0 for no apparent reason. But this is not about that. This is about people that abuse karma.

394 recently opened up a "sane" lane. This means that people that pay a fee can drive in this unobstructed lane at pretty good speeds. Us plebes can only watch them. Or wish we had a second person so we could be in the sane lane, too. This isn't a plebian vs. patriarch issue. This is a plebian vs. retarded issue.

On good mornings, which would be non rain/snow/chemical spill mornings, the cost to use this sane lane from 494 to Downtown is 50 cents. That's 50 cents to drive 7.5 miles at roughtly 65 to 70 mph. No issues. Now, halfway to downtown, there is highway 100, which is your last point to get on the sane lane, and also the point at which you *have* to commit (it's separated by cement barriers at this point). At that point, it's 25 cents to downtown. Ok, now that you understand the basic premise, here's what I experienced this morning:

I get on onto 394. I accelerate up to 70 to merge in with traffic. No issues. I get to the far left lane next to the sane lane which is the fastest lane. And I sit there with about 10 feet to the car in front of me. There is a hulking pickup behind me. This pickup is driven by Satan. The car in front of me slows down, the pickup nearly rear ends me and high-beams me. We're down to 55, we getup to 60. The sane lane is clipping by at 70. The pickup is flashing me. It starts weaving like a NASCAR driver. I'm seriously wtf'd at this point. All my lights work (I can see them on his grill when he nearly rear-ends me every 10 seconds). There's no exhaust that indicates engine problems. All we're doing is going slower than the sane lane. The pickup behind me starts going nuts. Literally, it's like a meth addict back there driving down the highway. I'm seriously beginning to thing he's gonna die in the pickup, or he thinks I'm some sort of antiChrist. Slowly, ever so slowly we start to creep up. The sane lane is still whizzing by us.

And then I see the last turn into the sane lane at highway 100. And he takes it. This entire time he was acting like tourette-tard on four wheels for me to somehow make the mile long caravan of cars go faster, and this numskull was trying to save 25 cents. 25 cents. There is a special part of hell reserved for people like this. You see, Karma is free. It's a univeral "common good" principle. When you abuse the common good for for a measly 25 cents, you take away from your ability to experience the joy that is humanity. You sink into a tar-pit of loathing and egotism that is only remedied by the Dantes 7.5th level of hell. That's the level where you're stuck in a booth dancing wearing only 6inch clear plastic high heals, garter belts, dancing to "I think we're alone now" by Tiffany while the viewers, for free, get to squirt water pistols filled with acid at you.