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Douchebags in sports cars

Today was one of those why-did-I-bother-getting-out-of-bed days, I-wish-I-lived-alone-in-a-van-down-by-the-river days, what-the-hell-is-wrong-with-people days, I-wish-I-had-a-lightning-bolt-so-I-could-give-every-douchebag-on-the-planet-a-jolt-from-my-angry-place days.

It started last night on the drive home from work. I was stuck behind the prickiest 50-something Corvette-driving jerk -- I wanted to punch him in the face. Traffic was moving until this asshole overthrew the passing lane -- speeding up and slowing down to prevent us lowly drivers in poor-folk cars from getting around him.

There were horns honking and arms flapping angrily in the air; there were middle fingers and I'm sure a lot of red faces. A couple of drivers overtook the bastard, but as soon as they got comfortable again in the FAST LANE he got out in front of them and slammed on his breaks.

He jammed me up three times before I laid on my horn and gave him the "WTF," which I caught him grinning at in his rear-view mirror.  I darted through three lanes of traffic to pull away from him, and a million happy bubbles tickled my soul when I saw he was trapped behind an equally prickish driver in a pickup truck.

I wish it ended there, but it wouldn't be me if it did -- I was stuck at a stoplight on the exit ramp waiting to turn left when Mr. I'm-a-flipping-demigod flew past me on the right waiving excitedly out the window. It might have been the icing on a really shitty cake, but I'm married -- things were bound to get worse, and they did.

Hubby gave me three options when I when I got home -- I could watch Napoleon Dynamite for the thousandth time this month, I could watch National Lampoon's Family Vacation, or I could watch some engineering ridiculousness.

I'm not allowed to watch anything I want to watch on television, because my shows are "stupid." So instead of forgetting the bad things I wanted to forget about at the end of the day in vegetative bliss snuggled up on the couch with my blanket and pillow that smells like dirty feet; I was chewing my angry bits like cud, and plotting revenge.

Revenge on all middle-age men -- my husband included -- who drive around in fancy sports cars and SUVs.

It's common knowledge that these poor, emasculated souls drive Corvettes and Ferraris and Tahoes and Escalades to make up for raisins God gave them instead of balls. 

Hear me now -- inadequate hardware and fat wallets don't entitle you to operate motor vehicles and TV remotes like complete douchebags. 

I went to bed angry, I woke up angry and I spent most of the day angry until Jerod turned on the radio a couple of hours ago and started singing Mr. Big's To be with you. By the second line I was laughing my ass off, and the girls and I spent the rest of the night rocking out in my bedroom to Gloria Gaynor, Phil Collins, Niki Minaj ... Wings and Elvis.

Jerod's still holding the remote control hostage, but the kids are asleep, and I've given up on my plot to borrow a tank from the Army and demolish all of the sexy mid-life-crisis cars on the planet.


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