There's never a cop around when you need one
Road rage is all the rage these days.
I watched a potentially dangerous situation for my rearview mirror the other day that shows the absurdity of road rage incidents.
To get home, I take a back road off the Interstate that goes from four lanes to two just past a bridge over the river; people generally jockey for position on the bridge, before the right-hand lane disappears.
There’s a Dodge diesel truck in the right lane, I’m in the left. There’s maybe four feet of open space between us and I’m closing. This dick in the right lane speeds up to tailgate the Dodge and looks like he’s going to try to hit the gap between us.
He’s got an open tallboy in his hand, a cigarette in his mouth.
The Dodge brakes in time – obvious he doesn’t like being tailgated – and I charge ahead, followed by two kids in a beat-up Toyota Tercel.
They’re passing a pot pipe back and forth, between bites of red licorice.
The guy with the tallboy squirts by the Dodge and is now, from what I can assume, about four inches from the Tercel’s bumper.
Pot Boys are not amused; they start brake-slamming maneuvers, laughing each time Tallboy has to slam on his brakes. Then the fingers and F-bombs start flying. Red licorice is tossed out the window.
I’ve got nowhere to go; traffic on this stretch of road ebbs and flows with rush hour traffic. I’ve got a sinking feeling these assholes are going to somehow involve me in their turf battle.
My uneasiness is rewarded when Tallboy passes the Pot Boys on the right shoulder, where there is a walking trail.
He’s now inches off my ass.
I slowly brake as traffic slows ahead; I’m two car lengths from the car in front of me. Tallboy flips me off, but backs off.
And is passed on the left by the Pot Boys.
Between more bites of licorice, Pot Boys resume their brake-slamming maneuvers.
Thankfully, my left-turn lane arrives as the road goes back to four lanes; Tallboy takes one lane, Pot Boys the other – and they both run the red light.
There’s never a cop around when you need one.
I watched a potentially dangerous situation for my rearview mirror the other day that shows the absurdity of road rage incidents.
To get home, I take a back road off the Interstate that goes from four lanes to two just past a bridge over the river; people generally jockey for position on the bridge, before the right-hand lane disappears.
There’s a Dodge diesel truck in the right lane, I’m in the left. There’s maybe four feet of open space between us and I’m closing. This dick in the right lane speeds up to tailgate the Dodge and looks like he’s going to try to hit the gap between us.
He’s got an open tallboy in his hand, a cigarette in his mouth.
The Dodge brakes in time – obvious he doesn’t like being tailgated – and I charge ahead, followed by two kids in a beat-up Toyota Tercel.
They’re passing a pot pipe back and forth, between bites of red licorice.
The guy with the tallboy squirts by the Dodge and is now, from what I can assume, about four inches from the Tercel’s bumper.
Pot Boys are not amused; they start brake-slamming maneuvers, laughing each time Tallboy has to slam on his brakes. Then the fingers and F-bombs start flying. Red licorice is tossed out the window.
I’ve got nowhere to go; traffic on this stretch of road ebbs and flows with rush hour traffic. I’ve got a sinking feeling these assholes are going to somehow involve me in their turf battle.
My uneasiness is rewarded when Tallboy passes the Pot Boys on the right shoulder, where there is a walking trail.
He’s now inches off my ass.
I slowly brake as traffic slows ahead; I’m two car lengths from the car in front of me. Tallboy flips me off, but backs off.
And is passed on the left by the Pot Boys.
Between more bites of licorice, Pot Boys resume their brake-slamming maneuvers.
Thankfully, my left-turn lane arrives as the road goes back to four lanes; Tallboy takes one lane, Pot Boys the other – and they both run the red light.
There’s never a cop around when you need one.
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