Life's our oyster and we're gonna suck that bitch down with a champagne chaser.

  • Behavioral Therapist
  • MA Developmental Psychology, Columbia
  • BS Psychobiology/ French, UCLA

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Wednesday, February 09, 2011  
Streets of Rage (and Douches)
The following is both a cautionary tale, and a how-to guide, on dealing with the road ragers of Los Angeles. It will, as most things in my life, be explained through the magic of the anecdote.

I should warn you that the language utilized in this story is crude, but is taken verbatim from the actual interaction I'm about to describe.

Viewer discretion.... is ill-advised.

Driving on La Cienega Blvd. in Los Angeles, at rush hour, is a lofty prospect by itself...but when a douche so profound, so erudite crosses your path, it makes the commute all the more... lofty.... and interesting.

Picture this: a Toyota FJ Cruiser (which if you haven't seen one is the most effeminate of the already prickish SUVs on the market), driving exactly parallel to myself in bumper to bumper traffic. The aforementioned girly SUV then proceeds to attempt to merge onto my lane, while still parallel to my car. I swerve away and honk. Idiot didn't see me, whatever. He then tries again, I swerve and honk, with emphasis this time.

Attempt #3. I decide this man (it's obviously a man) is homicidal or mentally incapacitated, and I don't want my beautiful car to be damaged so I will honk with emphasis while braking to a full stop while traffic moves forward around me, and the small-penis'd creature careens in front of me. With great serendipity, we arrive at a red light, parallel to each other once again.

His window rolls down. My window rolls down.

I get the conversation, which is sure to be intellectual and civilized, going.

"Are you out of your fucking mind?!"
"Fuck you motherfucker."

It is then that I think to myself that this guy is a white, past middle-age, douchedemon, with, at most, an at-birth education (that is, the intellect of a just born baby). If we were to get into an "Eff you," flip each other off match, nothing will be accomplished. But if I can openly mock him it would be oh so satisfying. Because believe me we had spectators at the intersection of La Cienega and Airdrome (what a terrible street name).

So he continues the conversation, whilst leaning out his window and has chosen to pair his expletives with not only the middle finger, but also the slap-bicep, lift-forearm-up gesture, multiple times.

I choose, rather than to match his bumbling ridiculousity, to bounce up and down in my seat, arms akimbo to my side, in an effort to mimic the ape-like brutishness of his demeanor. So, if you will, picture his lines of dialogue (because this is a theatrical farce at this point) with his gestures and my lines with ape motions.

"Fuck you, motherfucker!"
"Fucka fucka fucka fucka fucka fucka fucka."
"Fucka fucka fucka fucka fucka fucka fucka fuckaaaa."
"Fucka fucka?"
"Fucka fucka fucka."
"Fucka fucka. Sorry I'm not gay! Fucka."

Green light.

Not to toot my own horn, but the look of bafflement and dissatisfaction on his face was OH so satisfying to me. It is so much better than exchanging some middle fingers and vulgarities then driving off, which really stoops you down to any given assclown's level.

And the coup de grace: As I passed him and he attempted to yell something back at me, I rolled up my window and continued to bounce, hoping that he would see in my exaggerated behavior, his own primitive behavior.

What I attempted to do that night, was cathartic for myself who finds the act of flipping someone off very demeaning to myself, and also, ironically, a big "Fuck you" to all the douchebags on the road, without actually having to use profanity.

Fucka, after all, is ape for, "I'm an educated intellectual and you're a maladroit neanderthal.... motherfucker."

12:44 AM


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