A minor flap

Today, I had the privilege of being behind one of the most hilarious incidences of road rage I have ever seen. There was this truck, right? And the car in front of it was driving like super slow, which is really turning the truck guy’s crank. So the truck guy reaches his arm out the window and shoots a bird at the car. It gets better. Trucky starts moving the bird in a slow, counter-clockwise circle, kind of like he is pitching a softball, except there's nothing in his hand and he is not a lesbian (I assume). The car is continuing on in its obliviousness. Then, the truck guy apparently decides that one bird is not enough AND that he is driving slow enough to be able to control the car in case something should happen, so he puts BOTH arms out the window and shoots TWO birds at the car. THEN, in a move that surely could get him into the Olympics (if flipping people off was an Olympic sport; would it be called synchronized finger?) he begins to rotate both arms while still flipping the car off. Eventually, the car turned down one street and then the truck turned down another. It made me realize how ridiculous it is to get all worked up over someone driving slow in front of you. Hopefully, I can remember that the next time I want to climb out of my car and bash someone’s head in with a tire-iron.

Swing low

I am starting to wonder if I am a misery chick. You know, like Daria. Or like people think Daria is. Basically, it means someone who is miserable all the time: no matter what, they see the dark storm cloud that comes with every silver lining. I was thinking this because people at school would ask how my summer was. Miss Manners have two pieces of advice on how to respond to this question: lie, I mean give a noncommittal blandishment to casual acquaintances, or tell the truth to your friends but try not to wallow in it. So when people asked, “How was your summer?” I answered them according to Miss Manners’ advice. I would reply either “too short” (blandishment) or “bad” (truth). Then they would ask why it was bad, because for some inexplicable reason some people actually care about me, and I would give them the Reader’s Digest version: eye problems, getting fucked (figuratively) by my employer, and other minutiae. Then I started to feel bad because I had nothing positive to say, and berated myself for being such a negative Nelly all the time because the only form of exercise I get (other than wanking) is beating myself up. I must like it because I do it so often (beating myself up, I mean; I KNOW I like wanking, but that is a different blog entry). This constant haranguing started me to thinking: am I only “happy” when I am miserable? I read a Caroline Hax column (before anyone says anything about that, let me say this: I read the cereal box because it is in front of me. I am an omni-whatever-the-latin-root-for-“reading”-is-vore.) about just that topic. She said that she thought misery chicks were unhappy all the time because they were afraid of taking the chance to be happy. And, just like pleated pants, I realized this was not very flattering on me. So, I am going to be better, dammit!

Damn kids

I yelled at a kid today. Considering that I work in education, that’s not such a core shaking revelation. However, this was outside that context. I was coming home. It was around four o’clock, so the middle schools had released and the buses were depositing their precious cargo on the streets. I was stopped at the light waiting for a left turn signal. I was watching the minor tableau, also to my left. They seemed to be average kids; little punk ass snotty adolescents. The one little white boy appeared to be having some kind of problem: He was grabbing his crotch like he was carrying the world repository of jock-itch in his baggy jeans. My windows were down (my car’s air is broken) and I was sorely tempted to yell something, just because I could. Then this little bitch starts to cross the street against the light. My light. Walking like he thinks black males walk, still jiggling up his crotch. I couldn’t help it; as I reached the azimuth of my turn, putting me as close to him as I will ever be, it slipped out: “Get some Gold Bond!” I yelled. He yelled something back, probably calling me a fucker or a fag or whatever the cool insult is these days. It didn’t bother me; kids lost their ability to shock me a long time ago.