February 05, 2007

I really wanted to be in a chipper mood.

Really I did. I mean, it's a gorgeous day outside, even if it is cold. The sky is clear and blue, and with the rains from last week, the streets don't smell like dirty mop water and pee, and the cars make swirly decorative patterns in the steam coming up off the manholes, and I was able to drive and remember a happy time back when steamy manholes wasn't the name of a dirty website, and then, I got in line at the food joint (because I forgot my lunch this morning, although I wasn't particularly angry about that) and then it happened. Some twurd (twerp+turd) pulled into the queue and tapped on his horn.

Not by accident, either.

I understand the frustration at not having food magically materialize right there on your dashboard the moment you think about it, but you know, if you aren't brain damaged, most of the time you realize that if you pull into a fast food drive-through that already has several cars in line ahead of you that you might have to wait more than ten seconds. Second, surely you realize that blowing the horn of your car doesn't do anything but cause the food preparation staff to begin salivating in order to bestow your fish'n'chips dinner with a coating of special sauce. Third, it simply RUINS a perfectly pretty winter day.

Got my food, hoping it had not been adulterated by mistake, and headed back to work. Where my path was impeded for 12 blocks by a slow-moving vehicle whose driver took every opportunity to stop at every single light. Red ones I don't mind so much, but slowing down to allow the green ones to ripen isn't something I'm particularly fond of. No horn from me, though. Because I am a good person, you know. Which is why I was perfectly willing to be forgiving of these lapses in driving courtesy had it turned out to be an attractive young female. However, after finally being able to pull into the turn lane and peer into the driver's chair, such magnamity left me as I found the pilot to be an old woman as large and ugly as myself, with what appeared to be a habit of indulging in snuff dipping.

It is, however, still a very pretty day.

Posted by Terry Oglesby at February 5, 2007 12:49 PM