If I had a perfect 5, and not a 4.68 rating, I’d probably rest on my laurels and not continue to strive to be the best Uber passenger I can be.
I sometimes say, “Good. How are you?” to a driver who just said, “Good. How are you?” to me.
Occasionally, and for no reason, I smell like a bonfire.
I often set my pickup location in just totally the wrong spot.
I often enter the wrong address for my destination.
I don’t always bring enough clams casino to share.
I prefer not to wear a seat belt because seat belts make me feel bloated, and I’ve grown quite fond of the beeping sound a car makes when I’m not wearing one.
I’m not shy about asking the driver to slow down if I think we passed someone with a funny bumper sticker or novelty license plate that I would like to further inspect.
I’m not shy about asking the driver to speed up if a tough-looking trucker takes my giving him the middle finger the wrong way.
If the driver is talking on the phone, I’ll join the conversation by telling him and whomever he’s speaking with all about how my day went.
The driver has never had someone give birth in his back seat before and so couldn’t appreciate how realistic my reënactment with a jam-covered baby doll was.
I make the driver jealous with how often I bring up my ex-drivers. Especially ones who didn’t mind me playing my own music on my boom box or using “Honkerboy” (the honking stick I handcrafted using wood from the branch of a tree that had been struck by lightning) to honk his horn.
The driver thought I was challenging him to a drag race and not the cops who pulled up next to us.
I like to stick my head out of the window like a dog, but with my bare ass instead.
I try too hard to be a perfect Uber passenger.