Give me a Hell Yeah

During the course of Mother's Day festivities this past Sunday, someone asked how my daughter in Arizona was doing. I explained that she was doing well, and in fact I was going to drive out there to visit her in July. "You're going to drive?" someone, I'll call him Cloyce just to give him a name rather than explicitly identify my incredulous brother-in-law, asked.

"Hell yeah, I'm going to drive," I responded in my best Grandpa Joe voice. "It's hardly 2,000 miles." I've driven 900 in a day, with stops, on my job. I can do 2,000 over two days with minimal breaks. Easy peasy.

You see, I come from a long line of Cosgriffs who Love. To. Drive. Me Grandpa Joe drove a lot, all over the country and into Canada and Mexico, as did me Pops. The folks at Electric Eel called Pops the Road Warrior for the amount of driving he did. Hell yeah, I'm going to drive.

What's not to like? It isn't difficult, you have the freedom to move about as you want; there's no pat-downs or full body scans, no insolent questioning by surly TSA agents. You just drive. You just go where you want to go.

I know the advantages of flying. I will even concede that I, after this first visit (where I can see countryside I've never seen before simply by driving), might fly out my second trip. That is, if I take the time to make sure my driver's license is ID compliant for flights within the US. That idea bugs me, especially as my license is already driving compliant through these United States.

Can I get a Hell Yeah for that?