Really, man? For fucking ...
Why do people do this? Where did you even get 47 from?! I can understand, OK -- I can understand doing, say, 55. All the signs list that as the legal speed limit and you're going to obey those signs because, clearly, you have no balls. They're gone. They've migrated into your torso, got caught up in your bloodstream and have settled in the part of your brain responsible for reading numbers because that sign does not say forty god damn seven! NO SIGN SAYS THAT.
Don't get frustrated. There's no point to it. There is a way out of this. They wouldn't design a situation without an answer. You just haven't found what it is yet. Take a step back, and think. Maybe if you put a portal on the back of this trailer, some of that red superspeed-gel will come along.
... or maybe you can just portal in some Preparation H for the GIANT, GAPING ASSHOLE THAT IS SOMEHOW INEXPLICABLY PILOTING AN AUTOMOBILE RIGHT IN FRONT OF YOU.
Or, wait -- maybe you're supposed to land a portal on that billboard up ahead, drive through the one on the trailer, and ramp out of the one on the sign. Could that really be the answer? That seems insane. That is some Dukes of Hazzard shit right there. You're missing something simple. Right? No? Well, hell -- it looks like you're gonna have to try it, because there's no speed-gel anywhere and sonofabitchyoucan'tshootportals.
DO THE SPEED LIMIT, YOU TESTICLE-LOBED CORNHOLE! GRAAHHH! THIS COFFEE-WATER TASTES LIKE A FUCKING WAR CRIME.
The boss is pissed off in his snide, passive-aggressive little way. "Oh hey, guy, listen: I totally understand that stuff comes up sometimes. It's not a problem! Everybody's late now and then, it's just that -- and I don't know if you even knew this -- but we had a presentation today. Which you were late for? Remember? You probably didn't realize. That would explain why you also forgot last quarter's fiscal reports ..."
"Oh shi- OK. Hold on. I think I still have the orange one up in the mirror. I'll just portal back home, grab the reports and ... ah ..."
"Portal? Is that a computer thing?"
"No. It's ... it's what the teenagers say. It's like, uh, it means like 'haul ass' but ... less profane. That, oddly enough, is the direction teenage slang is taking these days, sir: Politeness."
"Hey man, just checking in to see if you want your higher reasoning back. No? Cool. Ouuuuttyyyy!"
I close the door to my office, crumble into my chair and lay my burning eyes into my hands.