I HAVE A disease. That may sound strange given that I’m a seemingly healthy 26 year old with a rigorous five-hours-a-day hot yoga routine. But in today’s victimization culture, I’m convinced not only that I can be classified as sick, but also that my sickness should entitle me to, at the bare minimum, free health care for the rest of my life, promptly accessible by a call on my Obamaphone. My condition is called intermittent explosive disorder, or in more common parlance, road rage. I’m a generally calm and measured person who develops homicidal tendencies behind the wheel of a car. If you’re a fellow RR-sufferer, you know the noisome cocktail of symptoms: the rush of blood to the head, the parched grip on the steering wheel, the urge to shout “Learn how to drive!” every time a fellow denizen of the highway commits a microscopic infraction. I haven’t done any research, but I imagine that if I consulted the Department of Health and Human Services, they would tell me that something like 410 million Americans are afflicted by road rage every year, an unknown number of whom are illegal immigrants.
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