In this lifetime, I'm going to buy a big-ass old car that's built like an tank. Once every couple of months, I'm going to strap myself in that mother like a storm trooper and ride around with no place to go.
Eventually, one of those snotty hotballs* in his snotty hotball car is going to decide that waiting two whole seconds in the exit drive of Dick's Sporting Goods while I pass is not worth his time and he's going to pull out right in front of me and make his left (or right) turn.**
In an awful big hurry to go home and load those hotballs into your new Lycra bicycle pants, aren'tcha, baby?Instead of doing what he expects and slamming on my brakes, I'm going to smile and run right into the son of a bitch. Then I'm going to make his insurance pay to get that big bad-ass old car repaired, and then I'm going out driving around in order to do it again.
Until then, I shall continue dealing with the hotball contingent by employing my standard practice of laying on the horn and offering an enthusiastic gesture that includes my middle finger.
Thank you for your support.
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*I refer to all men*** ages 18-35 in cars as "hotballs." When I'm talking to myself in the Mini Cooper, I'm usually saying something like, "Take it easy hotballs!" or, "Just hold on one second there, hotballs, and mama will move over."
**This maneuver is particularly maddening when they wave, as if to imply I had given them the right-of-way on purpose and the wave is a playful little thankyou of sorts.
***I realize that women do this as well. Not surprisingly,
silly little broad is my standard label for them, unless they do something particularly egregious, then it's
goddamn dumb broad.
