Days like these…

People around here are lucky that the government has not approved one of my many requests for a license to kill.* Whilst out procuring my final gastronomic hariki, I was nearly struck by several cars and all of them were WRONG WRONG WRONG!

We had our usual daily PM thundershowers here, causing the area to lose power twice and scrambling the traffic signals in the process. I left the comfort of my apartment in an attempt to forage, and before leaving the complex some asswipe in an SUV ran through a four-way stop when I was halfway through the intersection. I honked my horn and he beeped back which infuriated me. Is it just me or does that seem insolent, like saying “I know I was wrong, but screw you pal.” Or is a lame attempt to apologize, like the “I’m sorry” hands above the head wave. He went on to exit the area through the entrance gate and nearly got into a head-on collision with incoming traffic.

The next traffic light was stuck on red for our direction. After waiting several minutes for the guy in front of me to run the light when the street cleared, I shifted from the left lane and made a right turn. The guy in front of me chose to go at that time – also to the right, from the left lane with his left turn indicator on. I hit the brakes but not the horn since I still wanted to kill the last guy and didn’t need any more grief.

Traffic was heavier than usual because nobody knows what to do when the traffic lights are malfunctioning, so they each do their own thing only more slowly than normal. Most of the local fast food restaurants are located at extremely busy intersections that only allow left turns when the other motorists are feeling generous. Generosity dissolves in water, so there’s not much around after the rain. I was diverted from the restaurant when a guy pulled his car forward (but not all the way), blocked the entrance, and then sat and stared at me with a satisfied little smile on his face as he bobbed his head to his music.

Nearly an hour later, I returned to my apartment complex and was nearly hit at the same four-way stop by a car that refused to move until I went first. When I made it home I discovered that along the way I had smashed my index finger leaving a trail of blood across the nail. At that point I was happy just to get inside, lock the door, and pray to the Great Magnet to leave an Uzi and that license to kill in my stocking this year. I promise not to abuse the privilege. I’ll only kill those who break the law, hurt others, anger me, or otherwise cross my path at the wrong time.

* It’s actually a fishing license, but I scratch out “fish” and surreptitiously write in “kill.” Unfortunately, it doesn’t get processed by a cold, unfeeling computer. Some jerk of a human always sees it and tosses it out. One day, though…