on the count of three, rage!

i just returned from a casual springtime drive. it was going well until i pulled up to my second or third light. now this intersection is very poorly planned, so one has to take certain precautions before diving in. otherwise, you're going to get fucking hit.

so, being a veteran of this treacherous crossing, i wasn't in a rush to make my left turn. but someone was.

behind me, in a pollen-covered, green Ford Focus (which is fitting), two gay Santas wait impatiently. the driver (and presumably the "top," or man, in the relationship) wearing a silk, paisley-patterned button-down shirt that clung to his man-boobs.

the other wearing those enormous, flimsy black glasses they give geezers after an eye procedure. ridiculous.

two little old fairies, desperately in love with each other, awaiting the day when things would go beyond a mere civil union. the day when they could have that oceanside wedding they'd dreamt of for three decades. policymakers weren't moving quickly enough.

i wasn't moving quickly enough. fucker's leaning on his horn, visibly frustrated with my hesitance.

i'm not getting into an accident for you asshole. keeps blowing it.

my nerves are frayed after two minutes of this, and the sight of him throwing his arms up in disgust in my rear view mirror triggers some sort of feral response over which i have very limited control.

i calmly unbuckle my belt, my ears are wringing and the vision's gone all tunneled.

i step out, bound towards the Ford, and punch this asshole through the open window, right in the temple, much to the amazement of the both of them. and i keep jabbing until i literally can't lift my right arm. i'm panting; the most exercise i'd had in years.

the faces in the line of cars behind us are mortified and fascinated all at once.

unsatisfied with the inch-wide gash i've created just above his neatly trimmed left eyebrow, i pull this miserable fuck out of the car (all 300 lbs of him) with my good arm. for some reason his boyfriend unbuckled the belt.

he lands on the ground kinda funny, like some sort of prop, like a dummy. after a quick chuckle, i start kicking him in the throat, i mean really toeing him. he makes this guttural sound after each blow to his trachea. it's a funny sound, like a sound a muppet would make. like a sound Animal would make come to think of it.

i figure a good 10 minutes or so of kicking, with both legs, goodfellas-style. gotta throw your weight into it. exhausted and almost post-coital, i stare down his man-fiance, sweat stinging my eyes. he can't even look at me.

the next thing i knew, i was on the other side of the light, on my merry way, with the Focus about five lengths behind.

i wonder if that geriatric pansy knew how close he came to being on the news. i wonder if he knew that if this were L.A., he would've been shot through the heart with a crossbow pistol. twice. that's how they roll out there. fucken wild wild west.

so how was your day honey?

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