No, the title is not a road rage joke, though I seriously wondered for a few minutes if that was how it was going to play out. (Let me tell you, bitch would have gone down faster than the Lusitania with lead sails.) As I was driving in to work yesterday morning, I was reminded of one of Misty’s posts about crazy people needing to do the general public a solid by at least having the decency to look crazy in their bugfuck pursuits.
I left for work at just before my usual time, coffee in hand and sleep boogers still in my eyes from another shitty night’s sleep. I maneuvered my little hamster powered Honda toward my downtown office at a reasonable, safe pace, which is to say 10 over the speed limit, but still totally safe for the conditions.
As I was pulling away from a stop light, some dick tickling cum dumpster of a cunt badger in the lane next to me decides to turn on her signal and start cutting into the lane space I was occupying. (Because a blinker is just fair warning that someone’s going to act like a total twat badger.) In order to keep her from driving through my door, I swerved into the tiny shoulder and sped up to get past her, flipping her off with one hand, sipping coffee with the other, and steering with my knee because I am fucking talented.
And then she ended up taking the same route I was while riding my ass along every mile. I figured she was just being a raging bitter cock about my decision not to let her become part of my vehicle by forceful osmosis, but as I observed her in my rearview, what I saw was just plain WEIRD.
She was having quite the lively conversation, complete with wild gesticulations and facial tics. At one point I had convinced myself that she must have been on a bluetooth because there was no one else in that car and no one can carry on a one-sided conversation as vigorously as she was.
Only she wasn’t on a blue tooth. And I know this because she almost slammed into me as I was stopped at a school crosswalk to reach into her purse and pull out a cell phone.
Which she proceeded to speak into with far less animation than when she was all by her lonesome.
While applying lipstick with her free hand.
And apparently without my mad knee-driving skills, because at one point, she was squarely in the lane for oncoming traffic.
And then she was off the phone and back to her passionate jazz hands soliloquy, albeit with a more angry look on her face this time around. Maybe that lipstick made her feel more like a bad ass and less like a bad driver. Eventually, she turned onto a side street and I continued to work, breathing a little easier without the threat of being hunted for my skin, but finding myself a little bored.
I’ve seen myself through the eyes of surrounding motorists when I’m singing along with ear-splitting rock music – the looks are of sheer amusement, or pure terror, depending on the lyrical content. And given my experience as a one-woman vehicular rock opera, Stepford Mom wasn’t singing.
In short, I have no idea what this woman’s deal was. Maybe she was running lines on the way to an audition. Maybe she was rehearsing her “fuck you, I quit” speech for the boss. Maybe she was a raging bitter cock at the way I slighted her and she was living some sort of violent fantasy where she flays me alive while she tells me off.
All I know is – Fuck you, bitch. My keychain is a swiss army knife.