I am become Slowness, destroyer of commutes.

Hey, you, in my rearview -- back the fuck off.

Oh, are you in a hurry? Then I suggest you choose any of the other three lanes of traffic and go around me, because I'm not going any faster.

It's called a speed limit. Li-mit. As in, "Don't go faster than this." You know what it doesn't mean? "You can't go slower than this."

So, yeah, I'm driving 5 miles under the limit. Sue me. It turns out my miles-per-gallon goes up when I let the speed go down. And you know what's shocking? I'm not getting there any later than I did when I was speeding.

That's right, folks -- the speed of your car has almost nothing to do with what time you'll arrive to work. Why? Because there are red lights and stop signs EVERYWHERE.

So while you're darting in and out of traffic, jockeying for position, I'm just crawling along (safely), saving money and getting there at the same time.