I am a master sweaver.
I don't mean to brag. But it's true. Sweaving is a lost art. Today's sweavers do not strive for perfection. They are content to sweave as the mood strikes them, low-quality/high-quantity sweaving, a generic, ho-hum, collective sweave for the masses.
My sweaving powers are reserved for good, not evil. I only sweave when necessary, to avoid calamity, or when masterminding a game of revenge against tailgaters.
Perhaps I should clarify my stance, in case some of you are not privy to the sweaving culture. Sweaving is the art of swerving and weaving at the same time, while piloting a moving vehicle on a public motorway.
My husband, Hick, thinks he is a model driver. Well, more like he thinks he is driving in a perfectly normal manner, hands at 10:00 and 2:00, straight down the road. In reality, he sweaves. We travel from center line to wake-up bumps. Back and forth. To and fro. Left and right. Now and again. We should be required to pay double taxes because we inflict twice as much wear-and-tear on the pavement. Our tires last half the listed life. The mileage on our autos is outrageously low. Because we need twice the gas to go half the distance. Our travels are as much lateral as forward.
I, on the other hand, save my sweaving for dire circumstances. Like when a rock-hauling truck pulling a pup comes barreling down the center line at 70 mph on two-lane blacktop, and I sweave to the right, drive a few hundred feet on the grassy shoulder, and return to my designated lane. Unscathed. Been there. Done that.
The other way to utilize the sweave is when you want revenge without confrontation. No road-rage brouhaha is necessary. I gladly endure the remora feeding frenziedly on my rear bumper. One mile. Two. Three-and-a-half. Then I make my move. A turn onto my gravel road lays the groundwork for my evil plot. All the tailgater has to do is follow me, and I do the rest. Do you know how much dust flies behind tires with no mudflaps on a gravel road? Apparently, the tailgaters don't know either. Until I educate them.
Maybe you're heard the expression, "eat my dust." Indeed. I am the feeder. The tailgater is the eater. And I sweave up a mean smorgasbord of dust. Fine particles like powder, chat, pea gravel, inch-minus, and perhaps one day, rip-rap. My kids love it when they can't even see the tailgater through the dust. "You're feeding him really good, Mom!" Of course I am. I sweave from the left to the right, seeking out the loosest of the gravel. That's where all the dust is, where the particles launch most readily.
I am a master sweaver.