An Epic Tale, part 1

Back on December 2, I was driving to the theater to get ready for opening night of my play.  As I was veering into the right lane to exit, some douchebag comes bombing up behind me and proceeds to follow me at a distance of about 4 centimeters until, right before the exit, he tears around me and steers into the exit ahead of me.  At this point, my brow was furrowed in annoyance at the gall of this...WHOASHIT!  He SLAMMED ON HIS BRAKES in the middle of the exit, thereby forcing me to swerve onto the right shoulder where any normal person would have simply slowed or stopped and let the douchebag keep going. 

But I think we've determined I'm not very normal. 

So I put two wheels up on the curb and hammered it.  Douchebag sped up to keep me from passing and, in doing so, managed to scrape my left rear fender with his front right quarterpanel. Once the guy's car rubbed against mine, shit got real. I briefly contemplated a maneuver I think I saw on Dukes of Hazzard where I brake briefly, crank the wheel hard left and T-bone the guy's car into a nearby concrete barrier.

Yeah, it was pretty much like that.

Anyway, we end up both pulling over to the right shoulder (actually, since I was already there, I just stopped).  Douchebag gets out of his car, screaming "What the f*ck is your problem?!" and hurls a half-full beer can at my car.  At this point, my eyebrows have knitted themselves into a deep knot of testosterone-fueled fury and I've already decided the two or three best ways to take this clown out.

I step out of my car and advance towards him and say, in my most reasonable tone of voice, "WHAT THE F*CK IS YOUR PROBLEM, BITCH?!  HAH?!  WHAT THE F*CK IS YOUR PROBLEM?!"  Though I often lament the spare tire I carry around my midsection, being big and heavy is a pretty handy accompaniment to righteous fury (I was NOT dressed as a troll, which probably helped my credibility, but would've made a much better story if I'd had my green makeup on).

What the f*ck is YOUR problem, bitch?!  HAH?!

Douchebag literally closes his mouth in mid-sentence and backs up toward his car.  I advance to within spittle-spray range, waving my arms around like a coked-up gorilla, and ask again, just for clarification, just what the f*ck he thought he was doing.  The primal part of my brain had taken over and reduced my entire vocabulary to this one question, which I kept repeating until the analytical part of my brain started shooting nervous glances over at my primal brain and muttering "Dude, chill."

In response to my insistent questioning, Douchebag finally mumbled "You kept cutting me off, man."

"Kept cutting you off?! I was EXITING! What the f*ck am I supposed to do?!" I was doing that arm-waving thing again, so I stepped back and took a breath to calm myself, then said "Great.  Now we have to exchange insurance information."

Douchebag looks at me with a smirk, says "Oh, do we?", then slides into his car and drives away.

I gaped at his car as he pulled away, stunned that he'd just driven off while I was being self-righteous.  Then I realized this actually worked in my favor.  I could report him to the police as a hit-and-run, call my insurance company and STILL make it to my play on time.

Funny thing is, Douchebag has to be the only guy ever saved from an ass-beating by a children's play.


Run, douchebag, run!

 If there was any justice in the world, I would tell you the police caught Douchebag, violated him in a way that only pissed-off police officers can, then his insurance paid my deductible.  Of course, in reality, they never did track him down and I'm still in the process of getting my car repaired, which leads us into part two of our Epic Tale.  Stay tuned...