Utah has the worst drivers.

In New York, people think they’re the center of the universe and they drive like it. They’re going to make it, be big, rock the town. It’s the Big Apple the Empire State, all that shit.

In Southern California, drivers are narcissistic cell phone users barely paying attention to the road. There is, after all, too much traffic to move, so why not check the ol’ inbox, update Twitter, snap a pic for Instagram?

In Phoenix, people are spaced-out on the sprawl, zoned-out from driving the last two hours trying to get to the grocery store across town. They’re heat-stroked too, tires melting to the road. Best to just keep moving as fast as possible.

Then there is the South, where idiocy reigns. Nobody uses the right turn lanes, too complicated for the moonshined, home-schooled, inbred masses. Fingers are too greasy from all the fried chicken anyway, best to just drive the car like the Rascal scooter — fast and reckless.

And Texas, Christ. You can’t tread on me if I drive 90 MPH, Texas. Arrogance as stretched out as the roads, fueled with to-go beers from the gas station.

But Utah. Utah is unique. Every other terrible driving area has at least one thing keeping it in check — the fear of death. Nobody is as righteous as the Utards behind the wheel. Nobody is as sure God will save them from their stupidity and skillessness as the drivers in Utah. Maybe they’re right too — we didn’t kill a single driver.

In Provo, a driver glares after trying to give us the Mormon-mind-meld signal he wanted to get into our lane. He almost took our bumper off, his too, the prick. Little did he realize I have a direct link to the Angel Moroni — I knew he didn’t want that lane. He moved over 100 yards later.

We’re ready to get out of this state.

Good luck driving here.
Good luck driving here.