Illustration by Bob AulTo the very important guy in the expensive sports car driving on PCH in Laguna Beach last week: I know you've got the world on your shoulders and that my life is a fucking picnic by comparison—that much is evident in our incomes and the fact that I wear a hard hat and you drive a convertible Porsche. And I know that my job holding up a stop sign to allow construction equipment to make a difficult turn on PCH isn't nearly as meaningful as yours—couldn't possibly be. And sure, I know I really have no legal right to use my sign to stop traffic to help a lady and her little kids finish crossing a busy street. And I know you were well within your rights as a very important person to yell at me and the woman because we kept you waiting for, what, almost a half a minute. But I did think calling her a “fucking bitch” was overboard. And calling me a “jackoff” was ungentlemanly. And you might have considered that the alternative—having me stand by while two kids under five and their mother get slaughtered in rush-hour traffic—would have been, I don't know, irresponsible. And I did find it a little funny that when I approahed your car to explain all this, you shrank. There's no other word for it: you withdrew like a penis on a cold day. And you put the top up and pretended not to see me—sat there snapped up in your wee car staring straight ahead. But it all made sense when you pulled away and I saw the bumper stickers: next to “W '04” was “Support Our Troops.” You're brave from a distance. It's people like me who keep the world safe from shriveled little ballsacks like you.
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