Peoria is a cosmic, gravitational nexus of incompetence on the road.

This morning on my way to work, I was following my usual route making good time. In accordance with Murphy’s law, I ended up behind two semis. The one in front of me was carrying a tractor and two, big-ass tires on a flatbed. For the speed he was going, he definitely should have been in the right-hand lane instead of pacing along blocking traffic. The second was carrying something else, don’t remember what, but was considerably smaller. He was in the right-hand lane.

We’re cruising down I-74 Westbound coming up on the Pinecrest Drive exit. I’m muttering curses under my breath over having to be stuck behind this dumbass when all of a sudden… BOOM! The next thing I know, I’m dodging all kinds of shit flying through the air and bouncing off the road spraying my car with shattered debris. The sonofabitch truck I was just grumbling about apparently mis-measured his load and hit the overpass. *slaps forehead*

So I’m braking and swerving, and about a half a mile up the road we all pull over. I stay in my car to call into work to tell them what happened and let them know I’ll be late. The guy in the smaller truck was in front of me, and in front of him, Mr. Dumbass was inspecting his cargo. To hell with the rest of us, he had to verify his stupidity (or, to be fair, the stupidity of whoever told him his load met regulations.

The guy in the smaller truck went to make sure he had a cell phone to call it in. Instead, he says he’s going to take off. Smaller-Truck relayed this to me (as I had finally emerged from my car at this point) after asking if I was alright. Dumbass leaves. Small leaves.

With an inflamed sense of “fuck that” I get into my car and merge back into traffic once I get an opening. I call the police, give them my work number and a description of the truck and the location of the incident. “Did you get the license plate number?” No. I was too busy dodging pieces of farm equipment. “Did you get the color?” No, I was behind it, dodging pieces of FARM EQUIPMENT. Really though, the dispatchers were helpful and to-the-point, so I’ve got no complaints with them. My chagrin is directed at Mr. D.

After talking with the police, I resume my normal route to work. The light at the next intersection turns yellow. Again, according to Murphy’s Law, I’m nowhere near close enough to make it, so I put on my brakes. Then, according to Peoria’s Law, the bastard riding my ass (I’m no slow driver, by the way) slams on his brakes, damn near rear-ends me, pulls around me to the right–into a turn lane–then proceeds to run the red light I was stopped at. What are the freakin’ odds?

I haven’t had a chance to survey whatever damage the car might have incurred in today’s roadway shitfest, but I’m planning on looking it over once I get a smoke break. Good thing my insurance is paid.