The bird to you... sorry

I consider myself a good driver. I've only received one speeding ticket, and it wasn't my fault. It was the fault of the damn highway patrol officer.

Today (technicaly yesterday), some jerkoff decided to play a game with me. I was merging from two lanes to one, across a narrow bridge. I was clearly in front of Herr Schwantzkopf, but at the last possible second, he pushed the pedal to the metal of his piece of shit Le Baron. There was a surreal moment where we caught eachothers eyes. I looked over with pure, confused hate and he looked back with a smug calm. Like he does this all the time, and on purpose. And he enjoys it.

Let me take a step back. You know how to merge, right? I mean, I know that you all say yeah, yeah whatever. But you understand the concept, right? Like a zipper, one car from the left is just ahead of one car from the right. That car is just ahead of the car from the left. And so on.

You fucking liars. You don't know.

If you did, we wouldn't be backed up for 3 hours every time that a lane merges. You know you're guilty - you think that by cutting off the car ahead of you, you will save yourself one-billionth of a second on your trip home. In fact, if you do it enough, you might save the better part of one-millionth of a second. I don't mean to sound insensitive. You probably need to deliver the drugs before 5:30, or maybe your mob boss just called and needs a pedicure... now.

But I digress.

While I was looking into Mr. Donkey-fuck's eyes, I realized that my left arm was raising, quite against my will, into the classic salute of the road. Finally he took his eyes off mine and squeezed the last bit out of his POS in order to pull in front of me. It was too late, I couldn't show him my middle-fingered wave to any effect. I was forced to glare at his bumper. But I glared as hard as I could.

I've only flipped-off one vehicle in my life.

I don't remember where I was going or why. But I remember a little blue hatchback suddenly cutting in front of me and nearly forcing me into the delivery vehicle double-parked on the street nearby. Instead of trying to break or swerve, I found myself, like an insolant prisoner facing the firing squad, shoving my hand as far out of the open window as possible and forecefully wagging the longest digit at the bitch.

Later that afternoon, getting Starbucks, the selfsame "bitch", aka "barista" said to me "You're that guy that flipped me off this afternoon!" Check and mate! She was here, and I could let her have it!

Then it occured to me that one shouldn't piss off their barista. I knew better. I was working as a waiter, and would be happy to piss on your dinner if you were an asshole.

I gave my coffee a sniff, then another. I replied that I must have been having a bad day, no worries. Right? Right? Hah, hah. A little fun between patron and worker.

Two weeks later I forgot my sweatshirt on a chair out front. They were kind enough to keep it for me, but I still gave it a sniff. Not that I would have washed it - I was a bachelor, and a little piss never hurt anybody. But it was the thought that mattered. And there was no strange scent. After inquiring, I found out that the girl that I had flipped off was the same one that found, recognized and saved my sweatshirt. I never spoke to her again, so I don't know if it was altruism, guilt or something sinister that I never uncovered. But she had saved my favorite sweatshirt from certain goodwillism.

I swear at people, I project as much anger as my body can muster, I turn beet red with steam coming out of my ears. But I've never flipped anyone off since. You never know when that person will be your future boss, future wife, future benefactor.

Or the person who personally handles your food.