You bastards

I'm sorry, but I could quite cheerfully tear your fucking head off.
You may donate significant amounts of time and money to worthy charitable causes and be in all respects an upstanding and reliable citizen, devoid of all malice, but if you are in front of me on the road you may as well be Graham Capill. 

I do a lot of driving on the open road these days, covering the entire South Island every six weeks. I enjoy long stretches of driving on empty roads: I think, I sing, I take in and appreciate the breathtaking scenery of the South Island, I listen to podcasts and lectures and generally enjoy my own company. It is meditatively restful and edifying and when the road becomes tricky and windy I relish its challenges: I enjoy picking the apex of the bends, attempting to come out with the best exit speed and position for the next corner (all done within speed limits that are blanketed to protect us from the least able drivers); I strive to make my passage as smooth as Jenson Button's own reknown driving style. As I fly through the Whangamoas, the Takaka Hill, the Lindis, or the Hundalees my fun comes shuddering to a halt as my progress is impeded by you... you fucker.

You. Yeah you. Fuck you.

It doesn't matter who you are actually and you might be innocuously and quite safely driving at respectable speed, but you are in front of me and I have to slow down: you are a hideously boring dumbo; you are a fly on my Eggs Benedict; you are the piss on my parade. As I slow down I will unleash a torrent of invective at you, tracing your family history with four letter words and imploring you away. I really don't hope that you die in a house-fire, but I will scream that at you. If you are a driving a truck in front of me I will surmise at great length and at ear splitting volume about how fucking rail fucking transport is a fucking grossly fucking underutilised fucking resource. But at least trucks generally pull over into slow vehicle bays, not like cars... or campervans.

Yeah, just you stay there until I've gone past,
or throw yourselves in that lake.

Campervans are a scourge on our roads. I am surprised that, given how widely they are hated by all drivers, the large yards that hold hundreds of the things at airports are not targeted for torching by a jihad of spiteful motorists. We are trapped in the tyranny of living in such a beautiful country. We entice tourists here and in turn they clog up our roads as they gurn and moon at lakes that are bluer than belief and jagged mountains that justify their remarkable name. My misery is manifested by more screaming, peppered with the term 'road-maggots'. I'm guessing that the cost of lost productivity to our economy thanks to these hideous, boring boxes dribbling along our roads is in the hundreds of billions. This figure may not be accurate, but I never said my ranting was reasonable either. 

Or even better...

Having been caught behind traffic, I will suffer until I can pass. I don't take unnecessary risks. I dutifully wait until an opportunity arises where the road ahead is clear and I am absolutely certain there is no on-coming traffic ahead that will be any closer than 100m away when I have finished my overtaking manoeuvre. In this respect I am a good citizen (my last speeding ticket was in 1999 and I have never had a serious road accident). But if other motorists could hear what I say about them, they would be mortified. If they could hear my vituperative abuse, campervan drivers wouldn't come back and would actively discourage other tourists. Truck drivers would carry on congesting my roads, but I would consider ridding New Zealand of road-maggots as a win.

Here's the thing though: I'm not even really angry. I'm not likely to pop a vein in my temple any time soon, it's just part of the catharsis of driving for me. I wouldn't even call it road rage because I genuinely don't feel angry and I enjoy heaping abuse on my fellow travellers. It's as much part of my journey as the singing, the sun and stopping off at breweries along the way.  So despite the loud, insistent and inventive stream of profanity that is aimed at you, don't take it personally. 
PS. I hate you.