You: the middle-aged guy who needed to take a piss at one of the public restrooms just off Broadway and PCH in Laguna Beach. Me: the truck driver filling out his paperwork who had just completed his delivery to one of the area restaurants a few feet from said restroom, in front of which sat my truck. Everyone else managed to walk around said vehicle, an epic journey of 15 feet. Everyone except you, that is. "Move your truck," you bellowed. "I need to use the restroom." I politely asked you to wait 60 seconds, adding, "You can walk around the truck if it's an emergency." "No. Now. You're in my way. I need you to move," you replied. Again, I asked for a minute to move, and showed you the path to the pisser. "NOW! MOVE!" you screamed. Had you been polite, I would already have been out of your way. But since you were rude and obnoxious, I decided that my paperwork now needed the proper attention that only 15 minutes could provide, so I cranked up my Rob Zombie CD and pretended to scribble away.
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