Originally Posted: 2004-07-02 9:34am
I'm a patient man. If I find myself behind two Inject-O-Tanned Bellevue debutantes rattling off their multi-syllabic macchiato preferences to a heavy-lidded Tully's barista for more than the 3.7 seconds it takes the rest of humanity, I'm cool.
I'm an educated man, achieved through college loans, real-life application, and a cosmically ill-conceived stint in the US Navy. I remember *some* calculus, can calculate my taxes, embrace the printed word, and was first exposed to the concept of alternative lifestyles when walking through the door of an Olongapo City brothel and being met with the heady sight of a donkey in a compromising position.
Royal Tenenbaum would agree - I'm true blue. My friends are family, my family are friends, and I do believe in terms like 'never' or 'always'. Sometimes.
However, I am cursed. Cursed with a daily 75-minute 1-way commute. I live in the Auburn/Edgewood/Milton Bermuda Triangle. I work in Bothell - Land of the Neo-Hick Office Park. 75 minutes, man. 75 minutes of Howard Stern on the radio, 75 minutes of the Kennydale-to-Newport parking lot, and 75 minutes of witnessing acts of Jetta-wielding mental retardation (tired term, I realize, but oh-so-applicable).
Without fail, for 5 days a week, I am subjected to acts of idiocy. I am tailgated by overweight women intent on forcing that Egg McMuffin into their digestive tract while simultaneously changing the bristle head on their Sonicare. I see the obligatory 10-15 HOV lane violators breezing past. I see the kid in the lowered 1981 Honda Civic changing lanes like he's sidestepping turds in a shit-tossing contest (Enumclaw Street Faire annual occurrence). With all of this, I'm cool. It's expected, it's part of our NW culture, and while we all hate it, it simply 'is'.
What I cannot fucking deal with... perdone me francais... is the pencil-necked dickslap in the androgynous late-90s Camry, who, to my unending ire and discontent, cranes his neck from port to starboard (my apologies - Naval terminology dies hard), ceaselessly 'checking out' each passing motorist, while allowing the vehicle ahead of to proceed at least a 1/4 mile into my future.
Now, for the dunderheads who will vehemently insist that I'm only getting to work perhaps 5 minutes later than I would have sans the thumbdick in front of me, I understand this. I accept this. What I refuse to accept is this brazen disregard for other motorists, this complete ignorance of others within a 30 foot radius.
Look, fuckstick. You're never going to score chicks on 405. You're not going to find your soul mate in the slow lane. The redhead in the Honda you just gaped at has not retained your face nor car in her short-term memory. All you're doing is showcasing your pathetic existence. Seeing you earnestly searching for love in passing vehicles never elicited pity - I only feel what borders on hatred. I'd be a shitty Jedi in Yoda's book.
So, long story short, I've adopted a new approach to this breed of human that unfortunately lives in my congressional district.
I hock a loogie. On his car.
Generally, I aim for a side window. More often than not, I'll bide my time, sidling along the passenger side of the offending vehicle. I may take an extra swig of my coffee, to ensure viscosity, color, and substance. Woe to the offender that dares rubberneck on a morning when I've filled my commuter mug with OJ.
I slow to pacing the offending vehicle. I never honk to gain attention until after the shot. I lower my window. I inhale deeply, hocker-style. My head flies back, a paroxysm of latent energy. Primed, I expel the loogie. Sometimes it hits dead-square on the window. Other times it arcs, a milky globule, hued only by my beverage choice, gracefully onto the winshield - granted, a strong headwind prevents this brand of money shot.
I've achieved some fine splatter patterns. Some simply cling to the window like a dollop of Miracle Whip. Others spider out into intriguing chaos-mathematic-inspired designs.
Fact is, you now have my oral ejaculation on your car. I am on your car. I now possess the spririt of your Camry. I am right, you are wrong, justice has been served. You will complete your commute with my mucus, dried to a hoary crust. Others may, at a glance, presume a bird consumed with dysentery has left its supper on your car. But you know the truth.
You have purchased a 405 Loogie.
this is in or around Bothell