Tag Archive: road rage


 

Loud Noises

In Louis CK’s latest HBO special (I know that’s not Louis CK in the picture above, so calm down), he talked about saying unthinkable things – horrible, unimaginable curses – at others, all from the safe confines of his car.

Worthless piece of shit.

Hey, FUCK YOU!!!

I hope you die!

Hell, I’d done the exact same thing only a week before.  I was in a multi-level parking garage, trying to quickly find a parking spot so I could dash into a clothing store to pick up some stuff.  Naturally, given the common denominator of humanity, the parking garage was full of imbeciles who were indecisive, clueless, or clinically retarded.  The words that came hurtling out of my mouth at all the shitty drivers were startling even to me.  I literally said out loud, “Holy shit, what did I just say.”  All because these awful drivers dared to get between me and some shitty linen shirts and a couple of pairs of trousers by about 12 seconds.  I’m a terrible person.

When I watched that Louis CK bit, it was cold comfort that I wasn’t the only one who could get offended by myself.

Then a week goes by, and more different circumstances can offer you an entirely different perspective.  Let me explain.

This past weekend, I went on a 20-something mile bike ride with my friend.  He’s a long-time roadie, and I’m a road noob, so it was good to have some company on a road ride as the New York weather began loosening its icy grip.  In fact, the weather was fucking spectacular by anyone’s standards.  Just the best day to be out riding.

With about two miles to go from the end of the ride, we were riding single-file along a high street when, from behind, I heard a persistent series of beeps.

*beep-beep*…*beep-beep*…*beep-beep*…*beep-beep*…* beep-beep*

As a rule, I fucking hate it when drivers blow their horn at me while I’m riding my bike.  More often than not, they’re being assholes.  But even those who think they’re being helpful by blowing their horn to let me know they’re there, it fucks me off to no end.  I’m attuned to my surroundings and I’m aware of cars in front of me and in the back of me – because I can hear the cars coming up behind me.  Blowing your horn to “alert” me does absolutely nothing but piss me off.

Anyway, back to this persistent horn.  I was already hugging the shoulder on the right, and who passed me but some crazy old fuck on a yellow three-wheeled Harley.  It wasn’t even a proper Harley.  It was a fucking tricycle.  And it was lemon yellow.  Motherfucker.  Naturally, I shot him my middle finger as he rode by.

Yellow Harley Trike

[Picture at left was plucked off Google images for illustration purposes only; not the actual asshole in question]

The Harley fuckhead then proceeded to tailgate my friend ahead of me, and harass him with the same series of beeps.  The old fuck zipped by him and I caught up to my friend.

“I’m gonna fuck this guy up, I swear” I said.  (I wasn’t really sure what I meant when I said that.)

“’The fuck was his problem?”

“He’s an asshole is what his problem is.”

We approached the traffic light at the intersection up ahead and old fuck Harley was stuck at the light, but inching forward.  I sprinted towards the light and hollered out, “Hey, asshole, don’t you fucking go anywhere!”

I caught up to him.  “What the fuck is your problem?!  Go fuck yourself, fuckface.  Fuck you, fuuuuuuck you!”  I’d never stringed that many fucks in a row before.

His response?

*beep-beep*…*beep-beep*…*beep-beep*…*beep-beep*…* beep-beep*

I peeled off, turned right, and left him while the light was still red.

My buddy rolled in to help himself to a second dose of bollocking on this guy.  While I did a slow roll by and bitched out the Harley asshole, my friend was more patient.  And sadisitic, I think.  He rolled up next to the yellow Harley, stopped, and unloaded an ungodly serving of verbal beatdown for what felt like an eternity.

Every manner of profanity in the known universe was unleashed on this Harley asshole.  And I do mean every fucking word.  “Fucking” might’ve easily been the kindest word in that tirade.  That bollocking made Satan cup his ears, blush, and say, “Woah, dude, language.”  It was masterful.  It was fucking poetry is what it was.  I swear if he could’ve taken a shit on this guy, he would’ve.

Farther down the road, my friend and I collected ourselves to deliberate what had just happened.

“What the fuck was all that about?”

“I dunno, was he high or something?”

“Could be.  Ahh shit, part of me feels bad bitching out a crazy old man.”

“I gotta tell you, though… that felt good yelling at someone.”

“You’re right, it does feel fucking awesome bitching out someone when you’re totally in the right.”

And he was too fucking right.  It’s soooo exciting to bitch someone out when you’re totally in the right, and they’re totally in the wrong.  I mean, the ability to justifiably yell at another human being without restraint – and without repercussion – might be one of the last underappreciated experiences you might ever have.  God, it’s so hard to put into words just how satisfying it is.  Delicious is the only word I can conjure up.  It so is.  And when you’ve had a taste, you want it all the time.

So much so that instead of letting my phone go to voicemail, these days I pick up every time my caller ID shows that it’s a telemarketer.  God, I so look forward to those calls.  *Ring ring*… HOLY SHIT IT’S A TELEMARKETER, NO ONE PICK UP, I GOT THIS!!!

I usually let them introduce themselves and just inch their way into their spiel before I cut in with,

“Excuse me, WHO ARE YOU?  Where are you calling from?  Why are you calling me?  I’m on the no-call list.  You’re not supposed to be calling me.  What did you say your name was?  No, I want YOUR name, and I want your company’s name.  I’m reporting this bullshit.  I want your name, I want your supervisor’s name, the name of your company, all of it…”

I usually don’t even get through half that rant before they freak out and hang up.

Mmmmm… delicious.

 

 

You give me road rage

[Originally posted November 2010]

dumb car sticker

Those stupid oval Euro stickers. This shit has got to stop. They were meant to be some sort of poncy badge of honor you stuck on the rear end of your silly Ford Cortina to show that you’ve had the privilege of blasting up and down the intracontinental highways around Europe (re: “well traveled”). Now, you’ve got every other halfwit putting these stickers on the backs of their cars to boast of places that a) no one gives a shit about, b) aren’t even proper towns but probably like some school or some movement, and c) is probably about 5 minutes from where you live. What exactly are you trying to tell me when I pull up behind you? That you’ve been to Block Island? Big fucking deal, so has everyone else. That your annoying kid goes to some prissy, wank school? That somehow you’ve got some insufferable European pretense about you’re just so excited about? Relax, we already know that from that shitty overpriced Volkswagen you call an Audi. A gran turismo does not involve you getting into your car, driving down to the local drugstore, buying one of these stickers and affixing it to your car. It’s stupid, your car looks stupid, you look stupid, and you’re making your kids who are sitting in the back look stupid. Leave these stupid stickers to the Europeans. In fact, the Europeans are way past it all – they don’t even use these stupid stickers to show off anymore. They now leave that to the retarded suburban douchebags who live across the Atlantic.

But the worst – the worst! – is that oval sticker pictured above. I once saw that in Yonkers on the back of some bullshit Japanese SUV, and it if wasn’t for me having my own kids in the back of my car, I’d have been seriously tempted to do a hit-and-run. I mean, it’s enough of a poor decision that you’re driving around some shit car, but you actually go the extra mile and boast your fandom of Dave-goddamn-Matthews Band, arguably one of the shittiest acts in human history with an even shittier oval Euro sticker? Is there anything more unlistenable than Dave Matthews? Is there some competition for the biggest asshole in the world that you’re winning and this was the trump card you decided to deal?

snail road crossing

Passive aggressive pedestrians at a crosswalk. Don’t fucking run onto the street at a zebra crossing only to slow to a snail’s pace crossing the street. What is that, some kind of retarded power trip? Oooh, you have the power to stop traffic. How hollow is your day life that you’re getting a thrill out of holding up traffic while you do something as mundane and inconsequential as crossing the stupid street? It’s one thing if you’re slow because you’re burdened with 15 bags of groceries, or if you’re 85. I get that. But you’re not, are you. You’re just some passive aggressive little shithead who thinks that the zebra crossing is some municipal weapon laid out for you to get back at the man. What. The fuck. Move on so I don’t have to run you over.

Bush dog driving

Douchebags who drive with dogs on their lap. That is not some weird-ass metaphor. I mean that literally. I have a dog, and I like my dog. I have a car, and I like driving that car. But at no point have I ever thought to myself, “Hey, I like driving, and I like my dog… how can I put these two things together and have an absolute blast?” It takes a enormous fuckwit to think that driving with a dog on your lap is a good idea. Because when you’re operating a 4,000 lb. machine, that’s the best time to put your dog’s anus directly in your face and ensure that his fluffy mass makes seeing and steering as challenging as possible. Are you actually trying to teach that dog to drive, is that what this is about? Or are you so attached to your mangy mutt that if you end up in a fiery car crash – and you will – you want to make sure that Fido goes up in flames with you so that you two will forever be united in doggie hell. I hope your stupid dog jumps out the window onto oncoming traffic.

I saw something last night that make my head explode. Some 300 lb. sow puttering around in a Smart car – how she stuffed herself in there is beyond me, but I credit superior German engineering for the Smart car not disintegrating as she wedged herself in there – with a doberman on her lap. Stop for a minute and picture this horror show on wheels. An obese woman. In a peanut of a car. With a doberman on her lap. I can’t make this shit up, I’m not that creative. And that’s why my head exploded.

Riding against traffic

Cyclists who ride against traffic. Anyone who rides a bike towards oncoming traffic should end up as a hood ornament. I ride bikes. I love riding bikes. I have nine bikes, that how much I like riding bikes. And when I ride my bike – which is a vehicle, whether you like it or not – I ride it on the same side of the road as every other bloody vehicle out there. And I ride it on the road. Not on the sidewalk. On the fucking road. In the same direction as traffic.

It’s simple. If you’re riding in traffic, you ride along with traffic. This isn’t like running where you go against traffic. Because when you’re on your feet, you can get out of the way whole lot faster than you can on your stupid bike, I guaranfuckingtee you. How do I know this? Because you’re a big enough dumbass to ride against traffic. Which tells me that you’re pretty much useless on your bike. And unless you’re dressed head-to-toe in black, riding a black bike with no lights at two in the morning on a road with no street light, calm the fuck down, other drivers will see you and drive around you. If I have to get out of the way to avoid you, I’m doing so onto oncoming traffic, shithead. I get to choose when and how to avoid you, not the other way ‘round. My car’s bigger. I win on this one.