There I was, minding my own business, cruising at a comfortable 50ish as I approached the first light in the city. The speed limit is 55 along that stretch, so I was well within the law. I had the green light as I approached the intersection, and since it had just changed to green, I knew I had plenty of time to make it through.
I swear, as my front tires entered the intersection, some moron in a white minivan decides to make a right on red and pulls out right in front of me! How the hell could he not have seen me? I was right there! I mean, I could have spit and hit him…I was that freakin' close.
Needless to say, I had to slam on my brakes and swerve into the passing lane to avoid crashing into him. Thankfully, there were no cars along side of me. If there were, I would’ve hit the van plus a car in the passing lane. With luck on my side, I made it safely around him.
As my heart threatened to beat through my chest, and my brain sent every signal it could to make me take a breath, I glanced the moron’s way. There he was, calm as can be, chatting away on his cell phone, completely oblivious to the fact that he almost made Punky grow up without her mama. My blood started to boil! I called him every name in the book, cut in front of him, and flipped him off repeatedly. I couldn’t control myself…you know how I feel about minivans to begin with…and my road rage came on full force.
As we sat at the next red light, the idiot behind me still yapping away on his phone, it took every ounce of strength for me to resist getting out of my car, storming to his, kicking the shit out of the front of it, and then…when he would naturally roll down the window to yell at me…grabbing that damn cell phone out of his stupid fingers and throwing it under the next passing car. Grrrr…
Get… off… the… damn… phone! There is a reason it’s illegal, moron. Tell your homely, chubby, curler-wearing, soccer-mom wife that you love her before you leave in the morning. Get up five minutes earlier so you have time to answer whatever dumb questions your dumb offspring (no doubt a chip off the old moron) need to ask you. Tell the boss at your dead-end job not to call you on the way in…you’ll be there in ten freakin’ minutes. And I’m sure you’re no rocket scientist or neurosurgeon, so whatever it is can wait.
Yeah, that was mean. I'm not proud of myself, but I feel much better now.
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