Monday, August 9, 2010

Bad Driver Committee and Verbal Diarrhea, With a Side of Poop

So here it is.  In black and white.  In case, in my previous rants, you weren’t exactly clear on my level of detest for inattentive drivers; and my second irritation – grown men who parade around in two’s and use their vehicle to intimidate people. 

I’m not sure what ‘road rage’ you all experience in your parts, but over here in B.F.E., it’s fairly common to see testosterone seeping through the pores of a particular kind of verbally challenged men.  Granted, they are rare, as I think they only come out between their wake-up time of 2 and 3 o’clock in the afternoon, but when you see one, look the fuck out.

Before I elaborate on my encounter with Beavis and Butthead, I should probably tell you that I was in no condition to write about these topics on the actual day they happened because I am still recovering from the world’s worst tooth pain.  So, I’ve had a couple of days to marinate in this and now I feel refreshed and able to tap into my artistic side and paint the lovely picture of not only my erratic breakdown, but also how I act when provoked.

During my morning ritual of obsessive coffee drinking on my front porch, I noticed our really weird neighbor walking his two dogs.  Nothing out the norm, as I see him daily and nightly, make his way down our street, behind our house, over the river and through the woods – yada, yada, yada.  Aside from him having political conversations with his labs, he pretty much keeps to himself unless you make eye-contact with him, and then you are forced to secretly dial your home phone from your cell phone and act put out when your home phone rings because of course you would love nothing more than to talk to this man but – a phone call trumps discussing his distaste for the current government.

Anyhow, I’m sitting on my front porch having yet another conversation with my Dentist regarding the discomfort I am feeling when I notice this man stops in front of my yard and allows his dog to defecate on my lawn.  Please note: if your dog needs to go – by all means – when duty calls … who am I to stand in the way?  But if you leave it there for ME to clean up – we have issues.  Bring a bag with you maybe?  I don’t know, I haven’t been a dog owner for very long but I can assure you if my dog tried to cop a squat in someone’s yard with the owner standing right there watching, and I didn’t have anything to scoop it up, I would not be encouraging him to do so. 

Lab shits. Weird man leaves.  I’m now not paying attention to the dentist but have now become ‘Patty Poop Patrol’ and am ready to write out a citation for public display of smelly crap on my lawn! 

I hang up the phone.  Run inside and grab the last pair of rubber gloves I have and 2 grocery sacks.  I stomp out to my yard, pick up the master of all shits and throw it inside of a paper sack.  I get a sharpie, a piece of paper and a stapler and well … took this to the man’s house (or at least I think it was his house):

Yeah.  I feel better.  TONS! 

Later … that same day …

I’m driving into the next town.  We all know driving is always an adventure for me as I attract all the deadbeats in one city when I’m out.  I truly believe an APB goes out once I pull out of my driveway and all the bad drivers congregate to my vicinity. 

Head of Bad-Driver-Committee: Breaker, breaker 1-9, this is ‘Mullet-Man’ do you copy?
Assistant to the Head of Bad-Driver-Committee: Go ahead ‘Mullet Man’.
Mullet-Man: The hairline has receded, I repeat, the hairline has receded; this is not a drill.
Assistant: Roger that ‘Mullet Man’, ‘Operation Fuck With Spanky’ is a GO!

Either that, or people truly don’t handle construction well and evidently feel that any and all speed limit signs, merge signs, stop lights and signs are all just “suggestions”. 

I’m on our only Interstate.  Currently, it’s 3 lanes, about to change to 2.  This is where people have to merge.  I’m in the middle lane; to my right is a PT Cruiser.  My exit is coming up.  The PT Cruiser is refusing to let me pass so I slow down so the driver can go ahead.  Nope. PT Cruiser slows down.  We play the slow-down-speed-up game for a minute.  I give and continue at my normal speed.  PT Cruiser decides to drive in my lane with me.  No signal.  I swerve into the left lane to avoid being sideswiped at 55 mph.  Very loud noises come out of my mouth and the filter springs a leak.  I regain my composure and get back into my lane – behind the Cruiser, but not before I get a sneak peak at the driver.  Dead-ringer for Bea Arthur.  I don’t feel bad for screaming at her or flipping her the bird – partly because she is completely oblivious as to what she just did.

I’m freaking out, just as I notice that the truck I cut off in the process of avoiding a collision with one of the ‘Golden Girls’ is directly behind with Beavis and Butthead throwing their middle finger at me and mouthing off.  Horn is honking and the driver, Butthead, is riding my bumper.  They back off - ride up. Back off, ride up.  Then they swerve to the outside lane and pull right up next to me.  Still talking shit and honking.  Then they lane check me and put their brakes on.  I’m now doing 30 in a 55.  I go around.  They follow.  I take the exit I needed and as I’m waiting at the light to turn, a lovely conversation took place:

Both men, I would say, were mid-30’s, each wearing homemade sleeveless t-shirts.  Their hats were too small for their heads and the passenger was sucking on a wad of chaw.  Bobble heads were swaying back and forth on the dashboard and at least 2-dozen forest green trees were hanging from the rearview mirror. 

Butthead: F--- you, you @#%(&@ b-----! This is WHY WOMEN should NOT be allowed to drive.  You F------ C---!! B----! 

(Name-calling does not bother me.  I’m a big girl and I can handle being called names. However, just because I have a vagina, that does not mean you can attempt to intimidate me with your less than impressive words and go all Mel Gibson on me.  Really?  Yes, I took the bait and returned the adolescent behavior.)

Me:  This, coming from a white trash, inbred, neanderfuck hillbilly like yourself.  Get over it!!  

(That was probably a bad move on my part.)

Beavis: F--- You, you F------- (fill in the blank)!!
Me [ignoring them]:
Butthead: I hope you know, I wrote your license plate number down!!
Beavis [spits his chaw out]: Yeah! We have your license number!
Me: I’m actually quite impressed that you even know how to write asshole!

Light turns green, I go.  They follow.  I stop at a local coffee drive-thru and they circle me like sharks in the parking lot and then bail.

I didn’t call the police (as I usually would) because when I swerved, my cell phone flew under my seat.  I also didn’t take their license plate number down because I was unwilling to search my vehicle for a piece of paper and a pen while avoiding the mullet patrol and navigating through construction. 

I pull over and, after finding my phone, I called Mr. Fricken Awesome because at this point every emotion under the sun has entered my body and I am, what some would label, a flipping mess.

I went onto tell him about the verbal diarrhea that happened between the testosterone twins and I.

He always misses out on my ability to create havoc.  He is my ‘center’ when I am with him.  He is a super calm person and he avoids confrontation. Unless his buttons are pushed. He makes me feel completely safe and at ease. Unfortunately, he was working in another town and completely unavailable to come and beat the stupid out of them with their own arms.

I chain-smoked all the way home and even took the back roads to avoid any further encounters with the ‘Bad Driving Committee’. 

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