Ironic Ire

One hand hung from the car window, clutching a glowing cigarette, periodically bringing it to her blood red lips to take a desperate puff. Her other had clutched the cell phone desperately to her ear as she laughed raucously during her conversation, to the detriment of the other drivers on the road.

I vaguely admired her ability to multi-task, though her distraction was potentially to my detriment.

See, but for my driver’s license that has been expired for the past four years, I am a law abiding citizen. I really could not bear the potential embarrassment or the potential pain and inconvenience of being involved in a traffic accident during rush hour traffic. Of course, I would have to get into stuttered explanations to the police during the accident inquest as to my aversion to going to the Department of Motor Vehicles, and the fact that I would not be returning to pay the government license tax until they developed a drive through service. Something tells me that they would not understand my little boycott, and I was not prepared to deal with their unreasonableness and lack of understanding, all of which would be due to this dyam woman’s distraction by her cigarette and cell phone. I worked out the entire scene in my mind.

As her car continued to veer to my side of the road, I delicately honked my horn to advise her of the pending dire straights, whilst grumbling to myself that the heifer really should concentrate on the road.

To my consternation another hand appeared from the inner recesses of her body to flip me the bird (her nail was blood red like her lips), all with a sneer of her moustached upper lip, which I must say was quite unattractive, and very unladylike (her behaviour and the moustache). Then, as our vehicles crossed paths, she lowered the cell phone and the cigarette, sneered, “Stupid Bitch!”, and drove off in a huff, leaving me to inhale the fumes from the toxic vehicle carrying the toxic personality. My gasp of outrage sputtered and died a dismal death in her wake.

Interrupting my conversation, I flung down my cell phone, prepared to bellow an indignant response, but realized that it would indeed be futile. She was gone. She had won. The stinkin’ heifer! Where were the cops when you needed them???

I then picked up my cell phone, and resumed my conversation, getting into a passionate diatribe on how drivers no longer concentrated on the road. People are so easily distracted!

And on that ironic note, I shall now exit.

Ta ta...

'Fro.

Froggle Rock

I hot-stepped it out of the house at 9:00 AM, rushing to make it to work for 8:30 AM, feeling absolutely fabulous and groovy. My car was nice and shiny from the wash and polish the day before, and I took a moment to admire the sheen before I opened the door, and plopped by backside on the seat before distractedly closing the car door.

Then, I felt it. A splat of moisture running across my face, down my clothes, as I looked around in puzzlement wondering what the hell had just happened. Then, my peripheral vision caught a movement from the corner of the car door.

There was now a pair of slimy, scrawny, Kermit-esque amphibian legs protruding from the door, squished to a pulp during my distracted morning musings. I had slammed a frog to its death with the door.

Now, mind you, I have always been a vocal and passionate advocate for the death and dismemberment of all things amphibian, but never in the general proximity of my person whereby the blood spatter (my CSI term) and what may have been frog piss could catch me in its cross hairs. I am after all, an innocent victim in this war that I have declared against their kind.

My body eventually summarized what my mind was now telling me, as my fight or flee instincts went into overdrive. Having dived headfirst across the centre console, cutting a great gaping hole in my neck with my still fastened seatbelt (for I am a law abiding citizen), managing to open the passenger door to crawl hands first, bawling as if the frogs of hell were chasing me as I made the escape from Kermit’s dead relative, I now look back on the entire episode with a great sense of ‘ick’, general nastiness, disgust and other like synonyms. I am now convinced that the sons of bitches are stalking me and want to see me dead.

I relive the scene every morning, noon or night that I should close my car door. Never again will I have that naïve feeling of fabulousness, distracted and lost in my morning musings. I now have a sense of hatred and disgust for my car, who aided and abetted my trauma. Doors are now cautiously opened every morning, I now petrified of what I may find waiting for me.

There was a morning when there was a family of four nesting comfortably within the inner recesses of the door jamb, ready to wreak their havoc on my nerves, as my brother was summarily summoned to dispatch them with vicious haste.

He and I almost resorted to fisticuffs when my bellowed demands from the house that he “Kill the [*expletive*] rat bastards!” were ignominiously ignored, he choosing to release them into the ‘wild’ for they were ‘just babies’ and ‘would not do me anything’. He looking on in embarrassed resignation as I took bleach from the house and splashed it indiscriminately into the general vicinity of the area where he released the sons of bitches; I killing the surrounding flora in the hopes of capturing a certain kind of fauna within the widely cast net of my killing spree, all whilst cussin’ him for his [*expletive*] PETA antics, and tellin’ him that West Indian people don’t behave so, and how he does be watching too much North American TV, for he obviously don’t remember how the spider did come back for the man in Arachnophobia, and how he was being a friggin’ namby pamby wimp, and how I don’t ask him to do nuttin’ fi me but to kill four measly frogs, and not even that he cudda do propa!

Anyhow, I digress.

Now, I am relegated to spraying the door jamb of the car with bleach each night before I retire. Car advocates have advised that this will ‘ruin the paint’, as they obviously give no care to the fact that should a frog jump on me whilst I am driving, that may ruin mine or another persons life, for I would surely crash and dead, if not from the accident, then from the trauma. They never seem to see my point when I break it down for them so. And I know that the stinkin’ amphibian would just hop away from the stinkin’ scene to go forth and create more flickin’ tadpoles, and seek to ruin someone else’s life.

Death to them all, I say. Screw that circle of life bullshit!

And on that anti-ecological note, I shall now exit.

Ta ta...

'Fro.