Since my enemas (aka children) are out of school for another month (who the hell invented summer break? The bastard), I don’t have a moment to scratch my cheeks. Rather than wait the next long 30 days to blog, I decided to share some older ones.
I have a problem. Road Rage. You know it’s an issue when your mother refers to all your meltdowns as Road Rage. But seriously, if people would just follow the rules of the road, I’d be as zen as Buddah.
Naturally, I came up on her like a freight train on a snail–real effing quick. The dawdling pace of her 1978 baby blue Crown Vic gave me a case of the vapors. One look in her rearview mirror confirmed my suspicion that she’d been to the pharmacy to purchase her denture cream and Geritol. Clearly she needed her youth juice before the 3:30 dinner bell.
I don’t grudge her that–I could use a little pick me up myself–but sharing a road with her was like a Chihuahua sharing a cage with a werewolf–someone’s gonna get it, and it’s gonna be ugly.
Now, don’t get upset, I’m no ageist. Besides, she didn’t look a day over 140. What I’m suggesting is, if your Volkswagen-sized hat covers more of your eyes than your spectacles, perhaps a taxi would serve us better.
Now, this poor dame merely annoyed me–nothing a few deep breaths and loudly spoken expletives couldn’t handle.
Unfortunately, the same can’t be said of the A-hole who thought my tailpipe was a one way ticket to OZ. This jerkoff had me snapping my neck like Linda Blair in full possession. I screeched like a coke-addicted banshee as he dry humped my bumper.
I can go no faster than the Jedi in front of me, Nimrod! But this Proctologist wannabe was determined to give me the deep colon cleansing I did NOT ask for.
However, he is just one more idiot I can’t control. Now, onto my true vexation.
I hands down, full to the brim, yell it from the rooftops adore my husband. But if that stubborn jackass refuses to hand over his badge in such an obvious case of emergency ever again, I’m gonna introduce him to his own taser. Multiple times.
His badge is the holy grail in my road rage haze, but the stubborn goody two-shoes won’t let me near it! Just imagine the possibilities! People’s eyes would bulge out of their sockets. Crotches would catch slack jaws. And I simply delight in the idea of some soiled pantaloons!!
Hell, they’d wreck their own car, killing two birds with one bumper! They’d get their comeuppance and the hell off my road. It’s brilliant!
But no, I married a friggin boyscout. Nine years we’ve been married. Not once have I gotten my hands on his badge. Swear to holy cornmeal, he sits with his wallet between his legs whether I’m driving or riding, guarding that thing with his life.
So when that rat bastard Chevy blew by my car and the spry speed racer in front of me, all I could give him was the finger. And some instructions that I’m fairly certain are both incestuous and anatomically impossible.
So very unsatisfying.