It has been some time since I really ranted here. Today, the behavior of one man-child drives me to post about his subhuman behavior.
On the ride home tonight I was splitting lanes, as is my legal right to do in this state. I was riding slower than is usual for me, given that we were in the sweeping curve leading from one freeway to another. Traffic was backed up across all five lanes for at least a mile back of these events and for miles ahead. It was unusually early for such a back-up, but it was otherwise nothing special. I am in the right margin of the fast lane, where I use my passing lights to alert drivers I am coming. It was still light out, so everything that I am detailing here was quite clear to see.
A man-child in a small white pickup truck was in the lane next to ours, left arm extended and flipping the bird to me and everyone else following him. Pardon, I presumed he was doing it to everyone. Events immediately subsequent proved me wrong.
I, being on my bike, make no response. I have better things to do, like staying alive.
As I am approaching, the driver starts screaming something. I can’t hear what it is he’s shouting, only see his wide-open, toothless mouth reflected in his side view mirror.
Again, I make no response, though I cover the brakes and prepare to take evasive action. As I draw even with his rear bumper this fucknut attempts to take my life by swerving into my lane. As the homicidal man-child cock-pimple has not left me time or distance to stop safely, I am left with the sole option of accelerating clear.
Luckily, the driver I was sharing the lane with was decidedly not a jealous homicidal man-child cock-pimple from hell, and helped out, pulling to the side to give me some extra room. I manage to clear them both by less than an inch, and then only by turning my shoulders sideways to avoid homicidal man-child cock-pimple fucknut barnacle-hemmarhoid’s mirror.
Fight or flight kicked in.
I almost stopped, walked back to the man’s truck (still stuck in traffic), and yanked him out, preparatory to a delicious (for me) beating. Visions of spilled blood and splintered bone made delightful passage through the halls of my mind.
Despite my fantasies of ripping the vile barnacle-hemmarhoid limb from limb, I have far too much to lose by engaging in such behavior, however righteous (and satisfying) it may be. So instead I rode on, seething with anger and the aforementioned desires.
It kept me warm, it did. When I arrived home I drank copious water and am writing this as a means to work out my reaction, but find it does not satisfy. Here’s why:
I am certain that the self-control I (and others in the shitbird’s past) exhibited is something the homicidal man-child cock-pimple fucknut barnacle-hemmarhoid relies on as a survival strategy. Certainly, if anarchy reined rather than the rule of law, the creature would already be so much dead tissue on the side of the road.
I am not angry, I am enraged. Not so much because of what was done to me, but for fear of the possibility that by not yanking him out of his car and beating him till the color runs from his eyes, someone else might be successfully victimized by the jealous homicidal man-child cock-pimple fucknut barnacle-hemmarhoid.
Because I would feel guilt at not having put a stop to the creature’s behavior, I think that the next time someone does the same, I will excise my anger on the flesh of the fuckstick and damn the consequences.
You may note that I don’t ask why the shit bag did what he did.
I don’t need to.
He did it because he could.