Thursday, June 16, 2011

441. Road Rage (a companion piece)

(Okay, here is my disclaimer: I blatantly stole the idea for this post from my hilarious and very clever cyber-pal blogger Mary at Truth be told, she might not be my cyber-pal, because I don’t think she knows I exist. But. She is very funny, and I know good blog material when I see it, so I’m gonna write about the same topic. So there. Sue me.)

When I was first out of college, I used to date this guy named Allen. Allen was as sweet as saccharine cake and Hello Kitty sparkle rainbows all the time, except when he was behind the wheel of a moving vehicle.

If we were sitting in his living room, fine—nice quiet conversation. If we were sitting in the movie theater watching the latest Hollywood rom-com, fine—nice quiet staring at the screen. If we were sitting across the table from each other at an expensive restaurant, fine—nice quiet chewing of over-priced trendy food.


If we were sitting in a car with the keys in the ignition and turned to “on”—nice screaming at random stranger until police might feasibly become involved.

I’m not making this up. When he would get behind the wheel, all his pretenses of being a normal human being were just peeled away until all that was left was a gas pedal and a shouting match.

I should have learned early on that I should not get in a car with him. But no. I was under the impression that THIS time would be different, THIS time, Allen might show respect and common courtesy to his fellow road-sharers. That never happened.

One afternoon, we were zipping along a curvy stretch of road in southern California. A big black pick-up truck (inadvertently?) cut us off.

Like the Incredible Hulk, Allen went through a frightening transformation. His skin did not turn green, but his eyes did bulge out, and he grumbled profanities under his breath.

Game on!

Allen was on that poor guy’s tail faster than a NASCAR racer. Our screeching tires alerted any lucky pedestrians to stay out of our way.

“Allen!” I pleaded, with dread in my voice, “What are you doing?! Slow down!”

“I’ll show him!” Allen exclaimed, ignoring me.

We zipped up to the red traffic light where the black truck had the misfortune to be stopped. Allen reached around behind the passenger seat that I was gripping onto for dear life.

“It’s here somewhere,” he said, frantically feeling around. He grabbed onto a heavy metal crowbar, and shifted the car into “park.” I could tell he was planning to jump out and confront the driver.

“Stop it!” I yelled. “That truck was not trying to upset you!”

Allen took a deep breath. We both stared forward at the black truck. It had a UCLA emblem and a Tri Delta sorority sticker on the back bumper, and a daisy garland hanging from the rearview mirror. There were two surfboards in the back of the truck. The driver flipped her make-up mirror down and checked her pink lipstick. She swung her blonde ponytail. She was probably all of 19 years old, and most likely wearing her life-guard sweatshirt.

“Oh,” said Allen, realizing his mistake. “I … I … I thought it was someone trying to get me.”

We only dated a few more weeks after the incident; our relationship crashed and burned.

*apologies to Mary for this blog not being nearly as good as hers, and no pictures
** double apologies to Mary for taking down original post because I thought it might make her mad that I was blatantly plagiarizing her funny idea


  1. Hahahahahahahahaha I loved it. I really wish he had hit the teenage coed in the face with his crow bar. If she had tried to pass me, I would've cut her ponytail and made her eat it.

    Thanks for the plug!

  2. Good thing you never dated Allen-- you two would be the Dynamic Road Rage Duo! ;)



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