Last week, a big black Sport Futility Vehicle passes me at speed on 6th Street just east of Fairfax veeeery much too close for comfort. I’m talking another couple inches and trouble. So I fly the middle finger and boom a fah-cue! at its ass, but the sumbitch just guns it and goes. Five or six blocks away I see a big black SUV make a right, but it does so from in front of a similarly sized and colored SUV so by the time I get to where the turn had been executed I’m looking south at the one and east at the other and I eenie-meanie-miney-mo and choose the one straight ahead… and I chose wrong. This big black monster has all its windows down, sunroof open and the driver is puffing a stogie. The offending ride was closed up tight against the 90-degree temps. I think about doubling back to catch the bastard up at Wilshire, but it’s not worth the trouble and so I head on home. Seething.
Fast forward to a pitch dark gawd-awful-thirty the next morning and I come wide awake from the vivid nightmare I had in which I confronted the SUV’s driver and then go on to basically destroy the inconsiderate jerk’s car before destroying the inconsiderate jerk. I won’t go into the gory details except to say the dude ends up medievally messy dead — and that freaks me out. Sure it’s the subconscious and all, but still. Whoa. There’s anger down in them there dark places.
Not that I’d ever commit such unspeakability outside of my dreams, but because I don’t even want to get into any ineffective verbal altercations with these dimwads anymore I’ve come up with a plan that’s going to allow me me to go proactive instead of reactive. That’s right, the next time me and my bike are encroached upon and I’m able to catch up to the encroacher. I’m a-gonna hand ’em one of these below from a short stack I’ll be carrying with me then get the hell on with my life (click for a more readable version):
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