60 Minutes Of Insanity
There are several tales of road rage that end badly. People are shot. People are beaten. Cars are vandalized. Then, there is my tale of road rage, experience just over two hours ago. It did not end with any of the aforementioned actions. Instead, it ended with a one sentence verbal de-pantsing from my road rage accuser and a 60 second communication with an Asian police officer. Why did I feel the need to say he was Asian? Or a man for that matter? I don’t know.
I work oh so close to home from my swanky Dallas office. By swanky, I mean that I have my own cubicle. Nearly ever day, I get to go home and have lunch in my humble abode. By humble abode, I mean 500 square foot studio apartment. Pray for me America.
I left home at 1:02 PM. When I started my car to leave home after lunch, the tire pressure gauge came on. I hop out and wouldn’t you know it, there’s a screw in my tire and that bad boy is pretty flat. Luckily, I live in a sprawling southwestern metropolis. I don’t really want to say where exactly but sonofabitch do I hate living where the Cowboys play. I roll down the street to a Firestone and about thirty minutes later, I’ve got my tired fixed and I’m ready to get back to my real life. Any longer off my schedule, I would have had a Rainman-like fit over Quantis or fish sticks or some shit and started slapping my own head. I have problems.
My problems became more real and intense about 15 minutes later. I’m driving along on a four lane side street, going about 35 MPH (which is the speed limit) and this green Pontiac Grand Am/Grand Prix/piece of shit starts jabbing at me from the left lane. I freak out a bit, look over at the driver, and he’s on his phone, visibly angry and pointing and screaming at me. Unlike Louis CK, I am not interested in hearing what he has to say so I just continue on to my office.
I click on my turn signal to pull into the parking lot and the green clunker just keeps going. For a moment, I think, “Well, guess he’s made his point and given up.” Wrong. As I am parking, I watch and this f’ing guy turns around in a parking lot a bit further up. Then, sure enough, he’s in my office parking lot.
Do I freak out? No. If he really meant business, he would have just followed me without doing that chicken shit turnaround business. I mean, that’s what I do when I follow people that I’m pissed at. By this time, I am parked and walking into my building. He pulls up directly behind my car and is just sitting there. Naturally, I walk over to see what’s up. I knock on the window and ask, “Can I help you with something?” The window zips down about one to two inches and an extremely effeminate black man (who may or may not have been wearing eye liner) screams:
“You ran me off the road!”
Then zips his window back up. I wish he wouldn’t have because I still actually want to know…did I run this guy off the road? If I did, I am terribly sorry but I have zero recollection of doing it. I can’t even remember if I changed lanes during the entire drive. To be honest, I’ve been hopped up on meth all day and it makes it difficult to remember anything.
So, I stand there as he is waving one hand around while jabbering away on his Blackberry. I walk to the front of his car, take a look, no damage there, so I walk back and say, “If I did what you said, I am very sorry! Where did it happen?” Nothing. Just an angry man on a cell phone.
Looking very put out, he backs up about 20 feet away. Well, I’m not about to leave this obviously crazy gay man (I do not think those two things go hand in hand, in this case he happened to be gay and crazy) out there in his car built by a failed company with my car built by a thriving company (you go Ford). So, I walk over to his car to, you know, see if he wants to actually talk about the situation like a normal, composed human being. Again, if I did run this dude off the road, he would have had my utmost apologies and if he wanted to call authorities, I would have stood there and waited with him.
Instead, my approach upsets him further and he just took off. Well now, I’m a little worried. I don’t want this guy to come back and slash my tires with a mascara pen or anything like that. So, I called the police. They show up and I give them the whole story, explain that if I did cause an accident that I am more than willing to accept responsibility and deal with it like responsible adult human being persons. The Asian policeman (again, why?) tells me that everything is fine, nothing was called in, and it was…road rage.
So, if you are out there gay man in the green Pontiac Grand Am/Grand Prix, first and foremost, thank you for reading my blog. You obviously have impeccable taste in Internet reading site places. Second, if I did do what you say I did, I am genuinely sorry and am willing to deal with any damages (not your mental ones) to your vehicle. Third, if I did not do what you said and you are simply a lunatic driving around the mean streets of Dallas looking to scream at people like a crazy bastard, well…you should, like, stop or something.
Then, it turned 1:57 PM.
Cinematically Correct note: This really did happen. The sarcastic commentary was added at a later date.