Rte 128/Interstate 95 just south of Waltham. Four lanes of traffic. I'm in the third lane from the right. There is a small, black pickup truck in front of me, and I'm gaining on him rapidly so I change lanes to the left.
As we pass the pickup, which I estimate is traveling at 45 miles per hour as I'm going about 60, Jess and I both look to the right.
The driver is a large, mid-20s gentleman who is eating a bag of Doritos. A large bag of Doritos. The bag is clasped in his left hand, and he is shoveling chips into his gaping maw with his right.
No other visible hands on the wheel.
"Look at that guy eating Doritos like a BOSS!" Jessica yells.
"Did you see the pile of orange crumbs on his black t-shirt, on his chest?!" I yell.
"NO!" replies Jess, and I take my foot off the gas, thinking that he'll catch up to me, but I'm already too far ahead and a guy is gaining on me. I pull back over into the third lane and we look for him behind us but a multitude of commuting vehicles have swept into my wake, separating us from the Boss Doritos Muncher.
Seems we left him in our dust, or at least, in his own orange chemically flavored dust.