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Driving slow on the highway is the automotive equivalent of being stuck behind someone walking really slowly on the sidewalk. It's like, come on, let's pick up the pace! I didn't sign up for the scenic route; I just want to get to my destination without growing a beard.
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Driving behind someone going excessively slow is a test of patience. It's the real-life version of trying not to scream when your computer takes forever to load. I just want to yell, "Come on, you can do it! I believe in you!
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If slow driving was an Olympic sport, some people would be gold medalists. I imagine their acceptance speech: "I'd like to thank all the green lights I've missed and the perfectly good passing lanes I've ignored. Without you, none of this would be possible!
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You ever notice how when you're driving behind someone going super slow, it feels like you've been transported into a live reenactment of a slow-motion scene from a movie? I half-expect the driver in front to turn and give me a dramatic slow wave like, "Welcome to my world, where time stands still!
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Driving slow is like being stuck in a bad relationship. You want to move forward, but it's like the car in front of you is determined to take things at a glacial pace. I start looking at my GPS like a therapist, asking it, "How do I break up with this traffic jam?
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Have you ever been behind a slow driver and thought, "Is this person training for the 'World's Slowest Driver' championship?" I swear, they're out there practicing their moves, and I'm stuck in the audience, clapping in slow motion.
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I was behind a car the other day going so slow that even my GPS started giving me passive-aggressive directions. "In 500 feet, if you're still behind this driver, take a deep breath and count to ten.
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Driving behind a slow driver is like participating in an unintentional car parade. We're moving so slowly; I'm tempted to throw candy out the window to entertain myself and the cars behind me.
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You know you're driving slow when pedestrians are passing you with judgmental looks. It's like they're on a leisurely Sunday stroll, and I'm here in my car, feeling like I accidentally stumbled into a senior citizens' marathon.
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There's a special kind of frustration reserved for driving slow behind a car with a bumper sticker that says, "I brake for butterflies." Really? I didn't realize we were on a nature tour; I just want to reach my destination before I start an impromptu butterfly collection in my car.
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