Sometimes when I drive with someone, I am accused of having road rage. Which pisses me the fuck off. Road rage? Hardly. Just because I may call someone a fuckface in the privacy of my own car, doesn’t mean I have a problem. And usually, it’s more playful. Like, “Oh, is that how fuckheads make right turns?” But again, it’s very conversational, and no one’s feelings are ever hurt. Well, rarely, anyway.
The other night I almost got into a full on, road rage fight. And I swear it wasn’t my fault! I haven’t been in a fight in years. I mean a real fisticuffs, Gentleman Jim Corbett, “I’ll give you what’s for!” kind of fight. Ah, the turn of the century…
It was a Saturday night not unlike any other Saturday night, I was alone. So I decided to go down to The Fake Gallery to watch a show. I know, I know, my life is enviable. I was driving down a normal-type residential street around the corner from my place. Now, I’m not a skittish driver, I drive about as normal as anyone else, maybe more so. But I do take into consideration safety, mine and others. So, I’m driving more normally than most, when a flash of blue screams by on my left, and totally blows the stop sign up ahead. I just got passed! On a residential street! Passing’s not allowed on these streets! Needless to say I was livid. But I just said to myself, “What a fuck,” and kept driving.
We get to the next intersection a few hundred feet ahead, and again I say something to myself, “Good job, Talladega, you just did something insane to get around me, and now you’re stuck at an intersection. With me. You’re an unbelievable idiot.” I had to make a right turn at this particular intersection, so I got around him slowly, and just gave him a glance. An angry glance, but a glance nonetheless.
Sensing an affront to everything good and decent about him, idiot-boy changes his course and follows me. Now we’re in a “French Connection” type of chase. Except it’s in Los Feliz,and it only lasted a couple blocks. I see a light about to turn red, and instead of coming to a stop, I pound on the accelerometer and blow through the red light, hoping he would get T-boned by another car. Immediately I felt guilty. Not for fuckball, but for putting some other poor guy in peril.
Next intersection. I’m going straight, he gets on my right, but he doesn’t need to make a right. He needs to act like the tough guy he masturbates to every night. He’s talking shit at my window. I’m curious, so I roll down the window.
"You got a problem?," he says in his hardest core accent he can muster.
He was probably Mexican, but it’s difficult to tell. He might’ve been Armenian. When some Armenians shave their heads, they can look somewhat Mexican. He was driving a BMW, so that’s what made me think he might’ve been Armenian. Then again, so was I. But his was newer, so maybe he was one of those Armenians that spends all his money on a sweet, sweet ride, but still lives at home. The way a lot of Mexican guys do. Hey, we have a lot more in common than I thought!
"No, but apparently you do. Why you driving like a nut?" I asked.
"Don’t worry about it, that’s the way I drive," was his brilliant retort.
"What, like an asshole?"
"Whatever! Why’d you look at me?"
"Is that what you pissed about? I looked at you? You almost ran me off the fucking road and you’re pissed because I looked at you?"
At this point, there is not a semblance of conversation left. He’s yelling, I’m yelling, and neither one of us can understand what the other is saying. What’s hilarious to me is what happened next. It’s funny that when you get into an altercation like this, you lose all sense of communication, and only respond to the cadence in someone’s voice. So I changed my cadence from anger to condescending sarcasm, at which I am excellent. His did not change, but he seemed even angrier when I got all sarcastic.
"You know what, dude? Whatever. You go ahead and drive like an asshole. I hope I’ll read about you later getting into an accident and killing yourself," I sincerely hoped.
"Yeah! You probably will!" He shot back without missing a beat.
I rolled up my window, went about my trip and said to myself, “Okay, I guess you win Racer Douche! You die, and the world will be a better place. Now, if this other fucker would only stop trying to break the World’s Slowest Asshole Speed Record, I can get on with my evening.”
Rush Limbaugh, you bloated, ignorant, perfect example of everything terrible about this country; when? When will you give humanity what it needs by shuffling off this mortal coil? We’re waiting for that massive coronary, or that stroke, or that overdose. I hope you die the worst possible death available, a slow asphyxiation from those pills you pop, a painful, brutal heart attack from the fat in your arteries. Something that will make me chuckle and throw a party. Something that will lift me up whenever I’m down. You owe it to us, you lying, fear mongering, piece of shit. You have been caught lying innumerable times, yet you are still on the air, a testament to your listeners ignorance and optimism that what you spew from your lungs is true. When, Rush? When? Please make it soon so that we may say horrible things about you the instant your last breath leaves your obese face.
Pat Robertson, whenever I hear your newest verbal atrocity directed at the human race, it makes me wish that there was a god. Because if a good and true god existed, he would have struck you down long ago, you hateful, worthless waste of carbon. A good and true god would not allow a scum bag like you to say the things you say about the beings he created. I wish hell existed so that you could be condemned for all eternity to suck satan’s cock at his will (though, I dare say you may actually enjoy this). But alas, god does not exist. Nor does hell. I do not believe in an afterlife, but sometimes I wish there was one. One different from what you preached all your life. One where Allah or Vishnu or Xenu will destroy you every day, every minute, every second, for all eternity. You do not speak for that god that you worship that doesn’t actually exists, you fucking maggot. Forgive me, Pat, you’re not a maggot. Maggots serve a purpose here on earth.
If there were any justice in this world, your punishments of pain and torment would be very real, and witnessed by all you two have condemned. Someday we will be free of these “humans.” Unfortunately, they will most likely be replaced by uglier incarnations of the bile these fuckers are unless we as a people rise up and destroy the need for their existence. Before I die, I hope to see poor excuses for humanity such as these, hanging by their ankles like Mussolini. It is my dream. It is what I will work towards.