Traffic is neither good or bad, but thinking makes it slow.

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.

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