Don’t mess with the Irish.

I was a little keyed up after my first day of my new job. I mean, not having worked in a year and then having to assimilate a company’s worth of information in a single nine hour period, it set me a touch off-kilter. I drove from the office to Brighton Center, where I was set to meet STEVE! for drinks and hand off the Canon. I hit a parked car on the way (just a sideview to sideview graze), realized I forgot the tripod, then had to parallel on the busiest street in town. Ativan? Anyone? Anyone?

So I look back, right, and I see the car behind me stopping to let me pull into the space. I go about my business and am checking the curb when all of a sudden she starts beeping. I turn around, look to my left, and she’s about a centimeter away from my bumper. In a giant Hummer H2. And she’s screaming at me. WTF? I hate Hummers, I love a good fight, and she’s WAY out of line. So I start yelling back. Then she pulls over in front of me, partially blocking traffic, all the while daring me to get out of my car.

Hey, I’m nothing if not compliant. I gathered my things, turned off my headlights, and calmly started walking across the street.

“Oh, where’s your big mouth now?” She yells.

“You want to yell in the street?” I ask, circling back towards her, her and her gas-guzzling scrap heap. “I’ll yell in the street.” I’m all up at her window, and this woman’s got a face like Joan Rivers but with much more fake tanner and much worse plastic surgery.”You STOPPED for me!”

“I did NOT stop for you, why don’t you watch where you’re GOING? I could run you OVER in my car.”

I mean, comparing her car to my car is like comparing an airplane to a ground sloth. I dragged half my car along a concrete POLE the other day and didn’t even find it blogworthy. The thing’s a piece of shit. And I told her so.

“Yeah, well I’ve got MONEY,” she retorted

I’m seeing red. The gloves are off. “You got a nice set of lips for all that money, you raisin-faced bitch.”

“I’m PRETTY!”

“Yeah, as long as you don’t look in the mirror!”

“Why don’t YOU get a mirror?” She shrieked, pealing out into traffic.

“ENJOY YOUR HUMMER, FUCKING RICH WHORE” I screamed, much to the alarm of passing motorists.

Then I went into the bar.

“Could I have a glass of water, please? I’m meeting someone.” I shakily pulled my computer out of its case and started reviewing emails from earlier in the afternoon. God. What a bitch. I fucking hate Hummers.

3 Responses to Don’t mess with the Irish.

  1. S-Dub says:

    I think I love you. Lemme know if you switched sides.

    Like

  2. B! says:

    The irony that your wordpress’s suggested ad for this is “Official HUMMER H3 Site”. πŸ˜‰

    Like

  3. Megan says:

    oh my god….that is great.

    Like

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