Wednesday, December 16, 2009

A Particular Douche Bag's Windshield

My signal is on. I’ve been driving around this parking lot for as long as it took me to reach a height of 5 feet (which took longer than most, I assure you.), and finally a spot opens up. I don’t even care this spot is as far from the mall as the walk I took the other day to the “nearby” gas station to my house (which is far, I assure you.), or that the two cars beside it have left me space as slim as my chances of ever finding my abundant collection of tube socks that went missing months ago (which are slim chances, I assure you.) I am just utterly ecstatic that I have found a spot, hence my signal being on. (I believe putting your signal on for a parking spot is of the upmost nerdiness, since obviously if you’re sitting there in your car by a spot someone is pulling out of, you plan on parking there. Unless you’re just being an asshole and blocking traffic for the hell of it.) The car finally pulls out, and as I’m turning in...


Douche Bag In A Mini Van whips on into it, as if it was his the whole time. As if I didn’t have my signal on. As if I hadn’t basically bought that spot by blinking my left headlight at it for a good amount of seconds. Now, I don’t have Road Rage, but I do have Parking Lot Rage. And that rage is fierce.


(I do realize that he cannot hear me, so I state this slowly so he can lipread my profanity, in hopes that me, the 19-year-old girl in a Volvo, will intimidate the 40-year-old man who’s ego is big enough to drive a mini van and have the nerve to act like he owns the place.)

(I also have the courtesy to erect my middle phalange upwards while keeping the other four down in case he didn’t quite get the message.)

Douche Bag In A Mini Van finds this just hilarious and in retaliation, blows me a kiss. How sweet of him.

I thought of all the things I could do that would illustrate pure vengeance. Like plant dozens of dildos on his windshield so when he returns to his car everyone in the crowded parking lot will see him and he will become truly embarrassed. The problem with that is that I do not own dozens of dildos. Or one, for that matter.

I could also take a baseball bat and knock in all his windows, but I’m 19 now and jail comes into play with acts of violence. Besides, that’s completely unoriginal.

I could leave a love letter to him on the outside of his wife’s window in hopes of ruining their marriage just in time for the holidays. (Remember this Christmas, asshole?!) But judging on the way his stomach hides his entire crotch and upper-thigh area, I doubt his wife would believe the letter was legit. Or that she’d even give a shit.

I decided it best to make peace. Not really because I am a peaceful person, moreso because I had to take a piss.

I could piss on his car...

No no no. Peace is best. ("Peace, not piss!" That's what I always say!) Besides, nothing really could top the last time I had Parking Lot Rage. Now that was something worth telling the grandkids about.

So I’m in the mother fucking Green Hills Mall parking lot. (See? I get Parking Lot Rage just talking about them. I apologize.) So I’m in the nice, clean, security-guard patrolled out the ass Green Hills Mall parking lot. And again, my signal is on. (Now that I said how nerdy it was to do that, I’m making it seem like I do that often. Really, I don’t. Really. Like, really. Please believe me?) LOOK. The signal was ON because once AGAIN I had been looking for one fucking spot for way too long a time. My gas tank went from full to empty, THAT’S how long. (Exaggeration? Perhaps. But that’s beside the point.) So, I start to pull in. I’m happy, I’m smiling, I’ve never been this giddy in my life! And some FUCKING FUCKER FUCK zooms in out of nowhere, and by “zoomed” I mean the kinda zoom one would imagine upon hearing the word “zoom.” Like the Road Runner. Except this road runner was more of a parking lot fucker. And he was in a pink polo. (No offense to pink polos; it’s just that this minute detail comes into play later.)

I’m in shock. And I’m in a rage. When you are in both of these things, it is never a good feeling. And it is common to act irrational. So I went ahead and did a little zooming myself down the lane, through the neighbor lane, and back to the lane where Pink Dick (okay, maybe that’s not the best nickname for him), where Big Dick (okay maybe that’s not the best one, either), where Fat Dick (you know, ‘dick’ is a really difficult insult to put an adjective in front of without sounding perverse) where Giant Jerk (see? but that just sounds childish. there’s something much more mature about calling someone a sex organ when you are angry at them). WHATEVER. Where THAT GUY was getting out of his fucking red piece of shit car. I roll down my window.


“Why, you’re welcome!”

What is it with men not being intimidated by me? What’s with the cutesy responses to my rage? Why am I the one who looks stupid? What do I say to that?


I blame this on the Parking Lot Rage. I wasn’t in my right mind. It’s not my fault I went from screaming “fuck you” to “pink polo preppy” within seconds. It was a bad moment in my life and I’m trying to move on from it.

So what to do now? I may “make peace” now, but then? Then? When I was merely eighteen years old? That was when anger was a feeling that ought to be pushed to its fullest potential.

Now, I have not mentioned the fact that my sister was in the car with me this whole time. I was hoping that by the time I got to this point in the story I would feel like lying and not giving a fuck about it, but I just can’t do it. I’m going to have to give her the credit for the next thing that was stated.

“Let’s get chocolate Frosty’s.”

Now. You may be wondering why I feel such a strong urge to take all the credit for the idea to buy milkshakes. You see, these milkshakes were not meant to be put in our stomachs. They were meant to be put on a particular douche bag’s windshield.

The next few chain of events were a blur. Drive through Wendy’s. Order two chocolate Frosty’s. No, we don’t need sauce. We’re getting Frosty’s. Head back to the mall. Find fuckwad’s car. Put my car in park. Sit there for a minute. Are we really going to do this? Fuck yeah we are. Jump out of the car. Look around for witnesses. Yeah, plenty of witness. But plenty of Frosty to be put on a windshield. Pour Frosty’s onto windshield. Roll up sleeves. Put hands on windshield. Smear Frosty all over windshield. Cover entire surface. Write something in it? ‘Why, you’re welcome?’ See secutiry guard coming by. No time for extreme wit. Jump back into car. Wipe hands on steering wheel. Regret wiping hands on steering wheel. Drive away. Blast the music. Feel bad ass. Feel incredibly bad ass.

I’ve gone from Chocolate Frosty Vengeance to Middle Finger Vengeance. I’ve joined the masses. I’ve resorted to everyone else’s way of expressing anger. Someone please save me. Or better yet, stay away from my fucking parking spot when my fucking signal is on. You never know when I’ll find that old Natasha again, and you could be that particular douche bag with that now-delicious windshield.

No comments: