How poor are they who have not patience, what traffic ever cleared but by degree.
How bitter a thing it is to look into a Fararri and see another man’s eyes!
What’s in a name? That which we call a detour by any other name will still frustrate the heck out of you.
Uneasy lies the road that wears the crown.
The gestures of angry drivers have no eloquence; their fingers are yet unlearned.
The freeway has twelve lanes yet the comutes never does run smooth.
There ‘s daggers in men’s bumpers.
Fair is foul, and foul is fair — from the tailpipe.
Nothing almost sees miracles but horsepower.
Slower and slower and slower, creeps in our petty road pace as we age.
Taffic is a tale told by an idiot, full of sound and fury, signifying something whacked out about us.