Why I don't drive well.

Many people have asked me, “Jason, why does your driving skill suck so much?” Here’s the answer. -My dad was a real badass. Of course I don’t mean ‘badass’ as in kill babies and burn down churches kind of ‘badass’. The ‘badass’ persona that my father possessed was even more terrifying. When he cracked the whip around the house, entire continents would shift, creating massive earthquakes. And I am not using ‘crack the whip’ as a figure of speech. My dad uses the whip with such force that cracks appear on the whip itself.

One of the more fiery elements in our loving father and son relationship was The Car. Oh yes, it was The Car. Sure, it was just a Proton Waja but at that time I was at a tender age of 18, armed and ready with freshly bribed driver’s license and the need for speed. When he did hand over the car keys, his expression was similar to a mother who had just given birth and now handing over her baby to a paedophilic gangster .

But the exhilarating feeling of an engine at the command of my deft manual gear-shifting skills and my foot on the accelerator pedal was second to none. Under my expert guidance, our Proton Waja becomes a Ferrari, zooming down highways with rock music blaring, adrenaline pumping all ove-

RRRRRRINGGGGGG! , screamed my handphone.

I glanced at the screen, while at the very extreme end of my vision, I keep an eye on the road. The screen says “Daddy is Calling”.

Immediately my bowels suddenly became very nervous and out of nowhere, my bladder threatened to give up. I’ve been out driving the car too long! I should have been home by 10. 00pm! A quick glance revealed the time to be …. 1. 00am, which is probably the last time on Earth I get to see 1. 00am.

With an immense sense of trepidation and impending bladder failure, I answer the call. “WHERE ARE YOU?!”, boomed an otherworldly voice. In the background, I can vaguely hear the sounds of weeping and gnashing of teeth. “I er…ah…gulp…I am on the Federal High-“

“ON THE FEDERAL HIGHWAY? WHO DO YOU THINK YOU ARE?”
At the back of my mind, I begin to worry slightly that my father, having dialed my number, failed to recognize that I am his son. “Er…ah I was just about to come home”, I said, while grimacing and contorting my face, the key step to keep my nervous bowels from exploding.
“YOU SHOULD HAVE BEEN HOME 3 HOURS AGO! WHERE THE HELL ARE YOU NOW?”. By now I could clearly discern the distinct sound of a shotgun being reloaded. “Er…I ah…. I am just passing by Mid Valley Megamall now. I will be home as soon as-“

“I GIVE YOU 10 MINUTES TO COME HOME. NOW!”

Upon the call having ended, I immediately press the pedal to the metal, hoping to get home within the stipulated time, pushing The Car to speeds unheard off in mankind. Oh please, anything but the shotgun. I reached home within 9 minutes. At the entrance of the house stood my dad, tall, muscular and brandishing a cracked whip in one hand, a fully loaded shotgun in the other. “I …huff…huff…made it home…huff…in time…-“
This time the volume was not threatening to the ear-drum, the bass had lessened.

“Yes you came home in time. From Mid Valley Megamall, yes?”
“Yes “, said I, not recognizing at all the signs that I had just fell into a craftily set trap.
“Are you telling me you got home from Mid Valley Megamall, a place almost 30 kilometres away in 9 minutes? That you were driving at 180km/h? HOW MANY TIMES HAVE I TOLD YOU NOT TO SPEED?”.

From that day forth, when I drive, my butt never touches the car seat due to permanent tenderness. I just hang my upper body by the sheer strength of my arms clinging on the steering wheel.