More about bitches and wheels
This is exactly why passenger vehicles do not come equipped with machine guns, rocket-launchers or flame-throwers.
Piss-poor drivers.
Road rage.
Yeah, I had another brush with some idiot tailgater in my ‘hood. And lest you all think that I egg these people on, I had witnesses.
Lots of them.
Who all insisted I did nothing wrong.
I did get out of the car at a stop sign, however. To scream. At a woman driver.
Our story begins on the Fourth of July, about 7:20 p.m. with me pulling out of my driveway with the wife and kids. We were going to a barbecue to watch fireworks (little did the family know that the fireworks would kick off early).
I get to the end of my drive, checked the traffic and notice a silver Honda Civic about a block away. Plenty of time to get moving.
Next thing I know, the Civic is on my ass, a woman driver in her early 20s glued to my bumper, motioning with her hands for me to get moving.
The speed limit is 25 miles per hour in my neighborhood; like it is in every residential area in the U.S. It seems slow, but really, it’s not (my dad was in town recently and asked why I was driving so slow; I said I was going two miles over the speed limit and he said, “The speed limit in our neighborhood is 35 miles per hour,” which I called bullshit on).
My street is a series of curves and straight-aways; the police routinely run speed traps. I set my cruise control for 27 miles per hour and I’m golden.
If not for this bitch in my tail.
We get to a stop sign, where I turn left and she quickly follows – pulling dangerously close in front of a minivan coming from the street that parallels ours.
“Did you see that?” my wife asked. “She didn’t even stop.”
That’s OK, since I’m in the lead, and going 27 mph.
The bitch in the Civic is making gestures and riding my ass; she thinks a couple of times of passing; from my rear view, I can’t see the entire front of the Civic, she’s so close.
I roll the back window down and flash a 2 and a 5 with my fingers; she flips me off and continued to ride tail.
Until we get to the stop sign, where I have had enough.
I get out of the car, walk up to her window and yell;
“THE SPEED LIMIT HERE IS 25 MILES PER HOUR.”
The minivan has now pulled off into an empty lot, the driver telling me way to go, you tell her.
The bitch flips me off, throws it into reverse and speeds through the empty lot around the van and onto the road – kicking dust at more than 70 miles per hour.
We continue to the barbecue.
Where we meet up with the van driver (proving once again that I live in a small town).
“Honey, look, it’s Bev from the minivan,” I said.
“You know, you did exactly the right thing,” said Bev, who we find out lives just around the block from us. “She pulled out right in front of me and I don’t think there was four inches between your car and hers.”
“You know, if a big guy in a big truck with a big cowboy hat would have gotten out to yell at me, I would have apologized,” my wife said. "Not flip him off and back up in the middle of the street."
“Oh, I knew she was going to back up,” Bev said. “And if I didn’t pull off, she would have hit me.”
Our saving grace is that there are plans in the works to put speed bumps on our street to stop the speeding. I’m all for them (since I drive a four-wheel-drive that will glide over the bumps – at 27 mph) since it should stop the chronic speeding in my ‘hood.
I do, however, plan on talking to the bitch’s parents, once I find out where she lives. I’ve got the plate number.
Piss-poor drivers.
Road rage.
Yeah, I had another brush with some idiot tailgater in my ‘hood. And lest you all think that I egg these people on, I had witnesses.
Lots of them.
Who all insisted I did nothing wrong.
I did get out of the car at a stop sign, however. To scream. At a woman driver.
Our story begins on the Fourth of July, about 7:20 p.m. with me pulling out of my driveway with the wife and kids. We were going to a barbecue to watch fireworks (little did the family know that the fireworks would kick off early).
I get to the end of my drive, checked the traffic and notice a silver Honda Civic about a block away. Plenty of time to get moving.
Next thing I know, the Civic is on my ass, a woman driver in her early 20s glued to my bumper, motioning with her hands for me to get moving.
The speed limit is 25 miles per hour in my neighborhood; like it is in every residential area in the U.S. It seems slow, but really, it’s not (my dad was in town recently and asked why I was driving so slow; I said I was going two miles over the speed limit and he said, “The speed limit in our neighborhood is 35 miles per hour,” which I called bullshit on).
My street is a series of curves and straight-aways; the police routinely run speed traps. I set my cruise control for 27 miles per hour and I’m golden.
If not for this bitch in my tail.
We get to a stop sign, where I turn left and she quickly follows – pulling dangerously close in front of a minivan coming from the street that parallels ours.
“Did you see that?” my wife asked. “She didn’t even stop.”
That’s OK, since I’m in the lead, and going 27 mph.
The bitch in the Civic is making gestures and riding my ass; she thinks a couple of times of passing; from my rear view, I can’t see the entire front of the Civic, she’s so close.
I roll the back window down and flash a 2 and a 5 with my fingers; she flips me off and continued to ride tail.
Until we get to the stop sign, where I have had enough.
I get out of the car, walk up to her window and yell;
“THE SPEED LIMIT HERE IS 25 MILES PER HOUR.”
The minivan has now pulled off into an empty lot, the driver telling me way to go, you tell her.
The bitch flips me off, throws it into reverse and speeds through the empty lot around the van and onto the road – kicking dust at more than 70 miles per hour.
We continue to the barbecue.
Where we meet up with the van driver (proving once again that I live in a small town).
“Honey, look, it’s Bev from the minivan,” I said.
“You know, you did exactly the right thing,” said Bev, who we find out lives just around the block from us. “She pulled out right in front of me and I don’t think there was four inches between your car and hers.”
“You know, if a big guy in a big truck with a big cowboy hat would have gotten out to yell at me, I would have apologized,” my wife said. "Not flip him off and back up in the middle of the street."
“Oh, I knew she was going to back up,” Bev said. “And if I didn’t pull off, she would have hit me.”
Our saving grace is that there are plans in the works to put speed bumps on our street to stop the speeding. I’m all for them (since I drive a four-wheel-drive that will glide over the bumps – at 27 mph) since it should stop the chronic speeding in my ‘hood.
I do, however, plan on talking to the bitch’s parents, once I find out where she lives. I’ve got the plate number.
Comments