|Posted on August 3, 2014 at 3:05 AM|
It occurred to me as I mentally burned a hole in the face of the driver who was blocking the driveway as I was attempting to exit a strip mall that there are things we do righteously behind the wheel that we would never do as pedestrians.
Can you imagine coming up behind someone ambling along in front of you and hovering so close you could see the hairs on the back of their neck standing up?
“Can I help you?” you might ask.
“You’re moving way too slow,” the offender replies.
“So you thought you’d piggy-back me to help me move faster?”
Or having someone trying to hurriedly cross your path and instead of just letting them, you speed up.
“No, no, no,” you say as you get up to a full trot. “Not getting away with that today. No sir. Uh-uh!”
Let’s get back to those blockheads blocking the driveway? Can you imagine someone standing in front of a doorway so you couldn’t pass?
“Uh, excuse me. I need to get through.”
“I was here first.”
“I see that, but you’re not moving and I need to pass through.”
“Should have thought of that when you got up this morning.”
“You do realize you’re a Neanderthal, right?
Something about the power behind the wheel of a two-ton machine makes us think we’re Hercules, when, in fact, we are Pee Wee Herman.
Many years ago when I was younger, thinner and had a fraction of the sense I do now, I had an incident on a city street with two women in a convertible. Pepper, Janice and I were making our way across the street in the crosswalk when said chicks entered the intersection in their fancy schmancy car. Apparently, we weren’t moving fast enough for them. Perhaps there was a sale on silicone at Boobs R Us they needed to get to, I don’t know. In any case, they nudged their car into us in an effort to hurry us along. When I turned and gave the WTF?! look, the driver foolishly piped up.
“It’s not like you couldn’t use the exercise,” she called out as she sped away, long hair floating in the wind, laughing all the way.
“Take this,” I said to Pepper, handing her my carefully wrapped carton of Boston Crème pie.
Quite instinctively and with no real plan, I took off down the street in hot pursuit of the ditzy twins. Perhaps like a mother whose child is trapped under a dump truck or a person running into a burning building while everyone else is exiting, I was suddenly possessed with equal amounts of super human strength and lack of reason or prudence.
As fate would have it, the stoplight turned redder than my face and while the giggling gals pulled up to the stop, I miraculously caught up to the car. Like that hold Hertz commercial, I flew into the backseat and tapped Miss Thing on the shoulder.
“Did you have something to say to me?!” I sneered.
The only thing whiter than her face at that moment was the pasty thighs of her gal pal. They shrieked in unison, only to become frozen and fixed in place.
“I didn’t think so,” I snapped, as I calmly exited the way I came, walking back to Pepper and Janice, eyes wide and mouths agape.
“My pie, please,” I said.
So the moral of today’s story is: just like that box of chocolates Forrest’s mother gave him, you never know what kind of nut you’re going to get. So do yourself a favor and slow your roll. We’ll all get wherever we’re going sooner or later and, if you’re smart, all in one piece.