Ever get in your car, drive and forget where you're going or how you got where you are. You yell at yourself because that's normal. I mean who else is there to yell at. I'm the bone head who thought, Oh well, let's just daydream a while. I obviously have nowhere to go, do I have to get to nowhere, in a friggin hurry? You know the guy? I'm thinking, gee, how did I get here? Looks like I made good time!
Every sit at red light and have know idea how many cycles of changing lights you missed. You wish you had an excuse like texting or mowing down a big Mac, while searching the bottom of the bag for that surprise fry. Nope, just spaced out, waiting for the caffeine to kick in.
Ever notice how this always seems to happen on a Monday. Maybe, you just don't want to go where your going, so your mind in it's supreme intelligence decides, frig it, a little holiday would be nice right about now. Gee, where would I really like to go? Fantasy front seat, reality back seat. Little cotton candy clouds, filled with the flavor of the day just floating by windshield of.... Horn.
The driver behind wakes from his daydream and is gesturing like he is conducting the I'm angry symphony number one. The brass section is a little off, the percussion sounds like someone trapped in the back seat banging on the window trying to get out but the violin was right on cue. You conduct your own version of the I'm sorry overture number two, in buzz off major. The driver in back has two goals. One, is to flip you the bird. Two, to get to the red light or nowhere, faster than you. He pulls around you with his middle finger outro the window o. You realize the reason why he is angry. If the f the PM sticker and huge red and white flag wasn't enough. He is driving a pickup and he is mad for a good reason. The poor guy has no hair under his turned back cap, a small penis and if that wasn't enough, in the race to the red light, there is only one thing he can't pass. The gas station. I think, I should give this guy a break but no. Right is right and I'm sure he owes me an apology. The race is on.
I meet the clown at the red light, he rolls down his window or he pushes the button before he pushes my buttons. Out of kindness, I lower mine for ease of conversation. I can hear him but I can't see him. A voice barks. What's your problem? To be truthful the was an f between what's and yours but I'm trying to keep this clean. I'm trying to see the right winged, red neck, man hatter. Suddenly, a face emerges from a vape cloud. He repeats. What's your problem? Me using the verbal combat skills I learned in grade school, shout back What's my problem? You know, just to clarify that I heard him and before he could bark back, I add a zinger, What's your problem? No f was used. The f you, always leads to making something out it. I didn't want to get my ass kicked. The light is longer than usual and the awkward lull is met with just glaring eyes, weird come at me hand gestures and head bobs. Then it happens. We both realize two things. We are Canadians and real Canadians don't behave like this. We both say sorry as the light changes, one last word. Mondays! Bozo and Oppsy drive away to one day meet again at another red light and another daydream.
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