Road Rage Much?

It is Friday. I was in a great mood while leaving work today. I had just slid my sunglasses on and was singing "Dr. Horrible's Sing-a-long Blog" when I came to a stretch of road with a yield sign placed before a quick merging point. The trees surrounding the road do not warrant an easy view, but I could see cars were coming and sped up so as not to disturb the flow of traffic as I merged onto the road. The silver car I had merged in front of laid its horn on for a full five seconds whilst still driving. I looked up into my rearview mirror and could see a middle-aged man with grey hair and a big mouth. I knew he had a big mouth because he was using it to shout at me.

The grey-haired man was angry. Really angry. Like Tom Cruise angry. I could see his head jabbing around while he splurred muted profanities in my direction. He raised his fists and I could see them flying around his head as we slowed to a red light.

What was this guy so nuts about, I wondered? I didn't really cut him off, he sped up. I used my turn signal to indicate I was coming and he was ready to force me off the road. Suddenly, I could not help but sympathize with the guy. I bet he had just had a really rough day and maybe this wasn't the first time this had happened at that merge point, or perhaps he had almost been in an accident right before I tried to merge onto the road in front of him and he was still fuming about that. I remember having days like that, where no one on the road seems to be your friend. I began to feel pretty bad for him.

Then I saw he was in a shiny Mercedes. What's he on about? I'm in a dinky Corolla. Then I saw he was wearing a red-checkered polo with an obvious expensive logo. Then I saw his expression as he glared at my car and grabbed for something. Holy poo, is he gonna shoot me? I thought. Then I watched as he feverishly scribbled my license plate number on a pad of paper. Next thing I knew he had his phone in his hand and was speaking to someone and to my knowledge, there is no "How's my Driving?" bumper sticker on my Corolla.

Now, I'm no expert in life, but to me, that is just mean-hearted. How many times have YOU gone down a road and someone has merged their little car in front of yours when you didn't want them to? What do you do when that happens? Call your mommy and whine? Or write a blog about bad drivers?

I began to wonder many things as he drove his car onto the other side of me, window down, screaming once more before speeding away. Who was this man? Why was he so angry? Where was he coming from and what was his destination?

Well, what did I know about him? He drove a hot car and it was quittin' time in a business building area, so he was probably some upper-management dude. He was angry, which just makes him ungrateful. I mean come on, Mercedes-Benz, is life really that unmanageable? Maybe he was going to be late for his golf game. Why else would he wear that ugly shirt?

He could be slightly crazy. I don't think I've ever seen someone snap like that on the road. I was quite frightened and I really think he might have a problem.

I've studied up on my yield definitions and believe I might know where he's coming from. This may be what was on his mind (I'm editing for the children):

What does this girl think she is doing with that turn signal on? Doesn't she know there is a yield sign right there? I'm so smart I know what yield means: To give way to pressure or force. Maybe if I speed up, she'll realize she can't come on the road right now and instead fall into that patch of ditch. Ugh! Why is life so hard?! I hate it when people don't do what I want! I'm gonna go tell the president of my company to blackball her from every office building in the DC area. Oh wait, I AM the president of my company. Ooh, a red light? Goodie, I can tell on her. That'll show her, just like it did that old grandma this morning. Yes, 911? I'd like to report a wreckless driver...What's that? More important callers?! Don't you know what yield means??? Yield: To give up one's place, as to one that is superior. Let the police know there is some jezzebell in a corolla on the loose or I'll make you wear my red-checkered polo! (Window rolls down and he leans out as he passes me by) EAT MY MERCEDES DUST, WHORE!

Some may argue that I will deserve whatever is going to be the after affect of this exchange, that I was in the wrong and this crazed man had every right to take my license plate number down and call the authorities, and perhaps you are right. And perhaps you keep your own notepad and pencil on the passenger's seat, awaiting to nark on some unsuspecting half-innocent.



I hope it made you feel better, dude. Have a happy Friday.