The Car Swerved

First to the right, then the left, then it slowed, dragged down in the fisherman's net, only to dart diagonally right before settling down to float to a parking spot on the right.  It being a pleasant cool evening, with my own pleasant cool demeanor most joyously inclined toward parallel  insouciance, I felt that communication with the driver of this video game car might have crossed communicative threshold, given the ease with which communication could occur, given that we were directly behind and just about to pass him at a sluggish five mph, and so I let my hand flag out the window and promptly indicated in obsequious and fawning tone that the driver might consider utilizing the small yellow lights which, when properly connected, allow for a the minutest of electrical neuronal  impulse to be exceptionally displayed on the exterior of a two ton piece of scrap metal.  I tell you this in all honesty and with no sarcasm--for I was not sarcastic no matter how sarcastic this may seem. His reply: Fuck You, Asshole, at full range of vocal cords embedded within his smallish seemingly prepubescent throat.