Category: Funny Business

Road rage is a serious problem, one that can result in violent, physical acts from people whose anger manifests itself in the worst possible way.

But what do you call it when you confine your rage to screaming, cursing in unknown tongues and secretly wishing bad things on people in other vehicles – all from the relative privacy (and safety) of your own car?

I ask because I find myself suffering from this on a daily basis, and I may need help.

Before I go further, let me assure everyone that I’m no threat to become violent while traveling the highways and byways of America. I follow the rules of the road closely, which makes me (according to the film I saw in high school) an ACE driver – alert, courteous and educated.

I drive the speed limit, use my turn indicator for changing lanes, and stay out of the passing lane unless I’m passing.

I do not shoot birds at other drivers or ram them repeatedly when they piss me off. Such actions are dangerous and, if I don’t run the person off the road and into a ditch, thereby disabling their vehicle, they might retaliate.

And I never liked it when the mean kids beat me up.

However, that doesn’t stop me from raging in my own way.

For example, if you’re stopped at a red light, and the red light turns green, that means you should go, and you should go immediately.

Don’t lean down and look for that renegade French fry that escaped the bag, or check to make sure the cap on the half empty bottle of vodka in the passenger’s seat is twisted tight, or look in the backseat to ensure that the blindfold on your hostage is in place – just floor it.

Back in my kinder, gentler days, I would allow the driver in front of me a full second to get moving after the light changed before I started cursing. Now, if they don’t floor that mofo at the first green hue, I unleash a stream of obscenities so perverse and vile, I simply won’t repeat them here.

I even make up curse words, the latest being “catassdickery,” to describe the, well, the catassdickery of other people on the road.

I also scream, although it isn’t so much a scream as it is a strange, guttural noise that I imagine a yak would make if the yak was in line at the DMV trying to get his license renewed. This often happens when some wanker veers over into my lane without signaling, or flies off the on ramp right in front of me.

After I’ve cursed and made the yak noise, I then wish ill on the perpetrators. I know it’s wrong, but I can’t help myself.

I envision them finally reaching their destination and then having a large boulder fall directly on top of their car, crushing the vehicle and maiming them.

One time I imagined a man being mauled by a rabid owl.

I even went so far as to hope this one guy who almost sideswiped me got stuck in radioactive quicksand surrounded by cobras, although I’m not sure what scenario would cause quicksand to be radioactive, or even where quicksand might be found or how the cobras would make it through customs at the airport.

My spousal unit gets on to me when I react in such ways, offering advice such as, “Chill out!” and “Pick your battles.” She says it’s not healthy to get so worked up.

But really, I think what I do is quite healthy.

The offending driver can’t hear me curse or make yak noises, and if they happened to look at me during those moments they wouldn’t realize I was mad.

They’d just simply think I was having a stroke.

And more importantly, they can’t journey into the darkness of my mind, a mind that sees them covered in fire ants while being bludgeoned by snow monkeys with claw hammers.

Again, I’m not proud of any of this, but I just want you to know if you have similar thoughts and emotions, you’re not alone.

There are ways to vent your road rage so that no one gets hurt, even when their catassdickery warrants it.

 

Perhaps – if I can avoid illness, venomous snakes and stepping in front of a bus – I’ll live long enough to be a very old person.

And if I should reach that milestone (for the purposes of this column, I’ll define “very old” as 90), I vow to get my ass out of the checkout line as quickly as possible when I’m at the supermarket.

Let me explain.

I understand that many very old people are slow, and therefore it takes them a while to get up enough momentum to gather speed. That’s absolutely fine.

I have no problem walking behind a very old person, because, darn it, they’re very old and should be congratulated for still getting out there and being active Sure, there have been times I’ve wanted to leap over them gymnastics style, but I don’t.

I’m a good person and good people don’t leap over very old people unless it’s absolutely necessary.

However, I do have a major issue with supermarket check writers and – I hate to stereotype here – every one I’ve encountered in recent years fall into the very old range.

This is the kind of slow I simply cannot abide.

Yesterday, for example, I made a quick trip to the store to get a handful of items. I won’t name the store, other than to say it sounds like Publix.

So I grab my items (bananas, dog treats, baby bella mushrooms, table tennis balls, rubber dinosaur toy) and get in the aisle that has only one person in front of me.

That person was a very old woman, I’d guess between the age of 90 and 137, dressed smartly in a long sleeve white shirt, black pants and those weird looking black shoes that I always thought would be perfect for kicking field goals (if straight-on field goals was still a thing).

The best part, though, was her shopping basket had only eggs, milk, a loaf of bread and baby powder.

(I like to guess what people do with their groceries and, in this case, I assume she wanted to make sure her butt was cool and dry while she made French Toast).

But …

She was a check writer.

While most of us cool kids use either a credit or debit card for purchases, this very old person did not.

“That’ll be $12.54,” the cashier said.

“Oh … alright dear,” said the woman, reaching into her giant purse.

She carefully fingered through its contents before pulling out a billfold, and after slowly opening the billfold and laying it near the unused credit/debit card swipe terminal, she produced a checkbook.

Her next fishing trip into the bowels of the purse resulted in a ballpoint pen, which she grasped in her left hand while sliding the purse over with her right.

Next, she cracked open the checkbook – again very, very slowly, as if to raise the lid of a vampire’s coffin at twilight – and prepared to put pen to check.

“Who do I make the check out to?” she asked.

“Just make it out to the supermarket that sounds like Publix,” the cashier said.

“How much is it again?”

“It’s $12.54.”

“You said $12.54?”

“Yes ma’am.”

“The baby powder is expensive.”

“Yes ma’am, I guess it is.”

“It’s worth it, though, to keep my butt dry.”

Now this ordeal is bad enough, but supermarket check writers don’t just write checks, they also record the transaction right there on the spot.

So by now the milk has curdled, the bread is molded and the eggs have gone bad, but the very old person is still writing away, making sure to add $12.54 for “groceries” on the line below the $169.95 for “Willie G Skull LED Fuel Gauge” she spent at the Harley dealership.

I’m convinced that by the time she had grabbed her plastic bag of groceries and set out for her bike, the woman I saw come in earlier with the baby in the stroller left with a kid sporting a pornstache and bad attitude.

Now to be completely clear, I love very old people … I truly do. I’m advancing in age myself, and I pray that when I get to the stage where I wear pants up to my teats, younger people will take that into consideration before they trample me.

However, even if I make it to 90, I vow to always go the debit or credit route when checking out at a grocery store that sounds like Publix.

Life’s too short, and none of us are getting any younger.

Waiting rooms are among the most uncomfortable places on earth for me, and I blame my mother for making me feel that way.

But before I get to those mommy issues, a bit of context is required.

On Thursday, from 10:30 a.m. to 5:30 p.m., I spent quite a bit of time in a waiting room while my spouse was having a couple of tests done. That meant I had the better part of seven hours to worry, sit, fidget, worry, stare at my iPhone, worry, sit, avoid contact with other people, and worry some more.

The good news is that my favorite human came through her tests even better than expected. That made the day a huge win because it’s always a victory when you leave a hospital or doctor’s office feeling happy.

Still, it was an object lesson in just how out of place I am in such situations. In fact – if the dictionary is correct – I’m what’s known as an ambivert (an extroverted introvert).

An ambivert is someone who is either “on” or “off,” and that sums me up rather nicely.

Back in my paid journalism days, I enjoyed interacting with fans, players and coaches because we were all part of the same “tribe,” even though we had different roles in the village.

And while you can argue that in waiting rooms we constitute a tribe because we’re all there to wait and worry, I much prefer to keep to myself and speak only if spoken to.

Instead of cheerful and confident, I’m shy and reserved.

So after Mary was wheeled away and I was relegated to the waiting room, I found myself “alone” with six other people.

There was an elderly man, who was either sleeping or praying, or possibly praying for sleep.

Two middle-aged women were apparently a package deal, sitting together and talking about their recent trip to Hawaii.

One young woman was wearing ear buds and completely immersed in her smart phone.

And the other two people were, I’m guessing, a grandmother-grandfather combo, with granny rocking short blue hair and a running suit, and grandpappy proving once again that polyester britches never go out of style.

Now, had I not spent many years taking my mother (rest her soul) back and forth to the doctor, I might be the life of the waiting room party today.

Chances are I would’ve jumped into the Hawaii conversation, even though my only knowledge of Hawaii is the two-part Brady Bunch episode that featured Vincent Price and Don Ho, and a tarantula that crawled up Bobby Brady’s shirt.

And if any of the other waiters had made eye contact, I’d have returned the gesture – and probably worked up an almost-sincere smile.

But thanks to mom, I learned not to engage.

See, she was what I call a “Conversation Fisher,” someone who would just plop down and start chatting about whatever was on her mind, hoping someone would take the bait.

What was worse, though, is that she often tried to make me the center of her fishing expeditions.

For example, while in college I worked part-time for a hypertension center. I was majoring in journalism, but this was a job I could do around my class schedule.

Basically all I did was take blood pressures at supermarkets, and when I was “in the field” I was required to wear a lab coat.

Naturally, my mother thought this meant I was training to be a medical doctor.

I’ll never forget sitting with her in the waiting room at one of her checkups and hearing her bellow, “My son, Scotty, is making a doctor.”

There were many things wrong with that sentence, not the least of which was being called “Scotty.” Also, for those of you unfamiliar with southern expressions, “making a doctor” means going to medical school.

I was not making a doctor.

I never had any intention of making a doctor.

(I did once hope to “make a nurse,” but she just wanted to be friends and we never even kissed).

Point being, having mom belt this out to the other waiters was highly embarrassing. Invariably, someone would say something like, “Oh, that’s nice,” or “What are you specializing in?” and I’d have to mumble through an explanation that I was simply taking blood pressures in order to make beer money.

That mattered not to mom … if I was wearing a lab coat then I was, by god, making a doctor.

Finally, after spending many years as a newspaper sports editor, she finally accepted the fact that I was, in fact, a journalist.

She just never quite knew what I did or where I did it.

Jump ahead to another doctor’s office visit. All is relatively quiet and then suddenly, “My son, Scotty, runs the newspaper.”

Nope.

I was head of the sports department at a few papers, but never came close to “running” the whole operation.

Then, when some poor soul would decide to take part in the conversation and ask where I worked, before I could answer mom would say, “Oh, he works at that one where they do all the sports. He’s head of it all.”

Lord, I wanted to crawl under a rock. I loved her and know she meant well, but I reached the point where I dreaded having to sit with her because I knew something awkward was going to happen.

One time – I swear this is true – we were in a waiting room and she tried to engage a deaf woman. Mom didn’t know sign language, so she just made freestyle hand gestures in an effort to communicate.

That was as close as I’ve ever come to setting a trash can on fire just to create a diversion so I could jump out the window and run away.

And now you know the back story of why I tend to lay low while in waiting rooms.

Of course, I did smile when I thought what it would’ve been like had mom accompanied me on Thursday – especially since I was wearing an Avengers tee-shirt.

“My son, Scotty,” she would’ve said proudly, “is one of earth’s mightiest heroes.”