My dad travelled when I was in high school, so my mom taught me to drive. Mostly. But my dad, believing he was the world's best driver, sometimes allowed me to pilot the big Chrysler as he bestowed driving wisdom upon me in his Boston accent. He favorite line was, "Son, remember - your vehicle is a weapon."

Fast forward about thirty-four years. One gorgeous day, in 2006, I drove my wife, my three kids, my mother, my brother (Roy Jhciacb Cohen), and his daughter to Water World in Denver. (Technically, Federal Heights). We had a wonderful time, except when Roy and I sat atop the giant water slide, which reminded us of the time, in 1993, when Roy had plummeted into a soggy cornfield after jumping out of an airplane at 3,200 feet without benefit of a working parachute over Weeping Water, Nebraska. But getting off the water slide was not an option, as we would have embarrassed ourselves in front of hundreds of teenagers.

By day's end, the kids were exhausted. We piled into our Dodge Durango (which could seat eight). By this age, I believed that I was the world's best driver. In fact, I believed I was the Mike Tyson of driving. Some traits are hereditary.

I headed west on the Boulder Turnpike, careful not to exceed the posted speed limit. Traffic was heavy because it was late in the afternoon. We listened to music and discussed where we might eat supper. In our family, the driver always controls the music, which is why I always drove.

We were right behind a truck that had a box springs firmly secured to the bed. (Now, before someone libtard sends a nasty letter to the editor, I assure you that "box springs" is proper. A "box springs" is a collection of individual springs within a rigid frame used to support a mattress). "Pants" is only one garment even though a "pair" of pants has two legs. (My dad was an English teacher).

Well, it turns out the box springs (or "set of box springs" if you prefer) was not firmly secured to the truck bed. Suddenly, I - the undisputed driving champ - have got the Mitch "Blood" Green of box springs coming right at me trying to start trouble.

"Mattress, Mattress, Mattress," shouted my niece, Chelsea.

"Holy mattress mother of God," screamed my wife simultaneously.

Roy just looked at me and said, "Eye of the tiger."

But this is where all my training paid off. Had I swerved in either direction, I would have hit another vehicle, or, worse, flipped my vehicle over and likely killed a bunch of people. I instantly remembered my dad's words, "Son, your vehicle is a weapon."

I hit the gas and drove my five-thousand-pound SUV right over that box springs with extreme prejudice, leaving it splintered for hundreds of yards up and down the turnpike.

Now, although I clearly won the fight against the box springs by knockout, that's not to say my Durango survived with no damage. The Durango suffered a flat tire and some front-end damage.

I limped off to the side of the road and called the police, then a wrecker. Then I looked down at the splinters from the wooden box springs' frame, like Cassius Clay (later Muhammad Ali) standing over Sonny Liston. "I don't be swervin' for no box springs," I said.

The wrecker had a double cab and took all of us to the bus station in Boulder. From there, we took the bus to Nederland and walked home.

There are two points to the story. First, box springs refers to a set of individual springs. Second, your vehicle is a weapon.