156th & Dodge. Entrance ramp, heading east. Two lanes converge into one. In the left lane, The Colorado. In the right lane, which abruptly merges into the left lane, Crappy Seafoam Green Ford Ranger.
Seafoamy is neck and neck with me. His lane is about to end, and he knew this when he got in that lane. Now he's trying to merge into my lane. But I'm not budging. I glance over at him. Hawaiian shirt, greasy hair, Pal-Mal dangling from his lower lip with 2/3 of a pack still to smoke in his right breast pocket. Hula dancer statue on the dash, tiki air freshener hanging from the mirror. I know all this because for 500 glorious feet on the 156th & Dodge entrance ramp, we played a medium-speed game of chicken, and we stared at each other to see who'd blink first.
Understand, the lane was rightfully mine. On some days, I'd be nice and let it slide, and slow down to give him a free pass for his mistake. But I was in no mood for charitible driving today. No sir, I wasn't budging. Meanwhile, Seafoamy was quickly running out of road. First, his front passenger tire slid onto the gravel shoulder, then the rear passenger. Still, I wasn't giving in. Next his rear drivers tire went onto the shoulder. The Pal-Mal fell from its perilous perch on his lip, its ashen remains taking flight back towards the intersection where this saga had begun. The hula dancer statuette was bobbing like Shaggy in 1998, singing with Janet.
The tan Solara in front of me saw the action, and like most Solara drivers, was well-cast in the role of "deuchebagmobile" and sped up to allow me room to keep Seafoamy on the road. With visions of spending 8 hours in traffic school racing in my head, and with sensations of The Colorado forcibly ejecting Seafoamy from the roadway, I followed the Solara and allowed Seafoamy back onto the road.
On Dodge now, with four lanes at our disposal, Seafoamy decides to pass me. I've had my fun for the day, so I let him. Sure enough he passes in the lane directly to the right of me, flips me off, and rides off into the construction mess of West Dodge Road. But I get my revenge when Seafoamy, stuck behind Deuchebagmobile Solara going 25 MPH, gets stuck in the slow lane while I breeze by in The Colorado. Ha ha.
Its too bad, too, because I really wanted to pull up to a stoplight next to him, and get the bird there. I had a decent comeback. Not perfect, but OK. "I'm sorry? What? Oh, my apologies, I don't speak sign language."
I know, its terrible. But it seemed funny at the time.
--
That reminds me of the time in college when, riding with my buddy John in his Blazer, we raced a guy down Dodge downtown at 12:30 am -- running like 6 or 7 red lights in the process. I can only offer one excuse. College.
Also reminds me of the time in college when, caravanning to a Graphic Design Retreat at Camp Kitaki out in the country, one of the cars in our caravan tried to pass me. It was Billy. And it was a two-lane highway, just outside of South Bend, Nebraska. Meaning one lane each direction. I decided not to let Billy pass me, and sped up. That was HIGH SPEED CHICKEN, and far more dangerous, because for 2 miles we rode side by side, going 120 MPH, his car in the wrong lane against oncoming traffic the entire time. Good thing there was no traffic.
What a gas. I don't do that shit no more though. That was, um, College.
--
As I had mentioned yesterday, some of my friends and I were considering going to Lincoln for the Def Leppard/Bryan Adams show. Well, we decided against it, because, well, its $52 and that's a lot of cash. I was mildly upset. When we decided our alternative plans, which I cannot divulge but you might be able to sleuth out of my response to them -- I sent this artfully crafted poem using all 16 songs from Def Leppard's set list at one of their shows earlier in the tour:
Rock On, No Foolin'. Lets Get Rocked and Hysteria-ical, and go see some Action at the club. You want irresponsibility, go there -- you have to leave your phone in the car because no Photographs are allowed inside -- so you can't talk to clients for like, hours! Just don't ask the ladies to Pour Some Sugar On Me (or you, for that matter) -- its not really sugar, I Promises. That Rock Of Ages is illegal, man.
No Matter What, remember not to get your Rocket too close to the Women, or you'll soon learn Love Bites. Talk about Bringin' On the Heartbreak.
Armegeddon It,
Tom
You bet.
Leave a comment