Suburban Ass-ault

Illustration by Bob AulTo the rage-infested lady on the cell phone who almost ran me off the road: I was driving my eco-friendly car in the slow lane, listening to a Shirley Q. Liquor CD, when my vehicle hampered your sudden and apparently urgent merge. I honked because it was obvious to any sober driver that you were oblivious to vehicles smaller than your oversized SUV, which displayed an “Ozzy 4 President” bumper sticker on its rear window. My honk did not faze you, for you continued to merge, forcing me to brake suddenly, starting a chain of spilled venti nonfat lattes that I cannot begin to apologize for. Then you flipped me the bird. What would Jesus do, you ask? Well, I yelled something completely hateful and drenched in Hollywood-style prejudice, then threw my middle finger through my sunroof so that you would be sure to witness its beauty. You almost caused another collision by following me off the freeway. When it was time for me to turn right and for your ultra-hate-filled-eight-mile-per-gallon suburban-assault vehicle to go straight, you honked. And flipped me off. Again. This is when I realized our nation's gun laws save lives, for had I owned a 9mm and stored it in my glove compartment, your glittery gas guzzler would have been orphaned by the roadside, you life-sucking cow.

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