So, last night, I was coming home from a lovely trip to Atlanta, to see the SO. I had such a wonderful time, and everything was perfect. He makes me so glad to be alive.
Then, I get in the car, a tear or two in my eye, and head back to Chucktown. Georgia 400, I-285, smooth sailing. Clear night, stars out. Not a lot of traffic, just me and my rental car.
Then I get on I-20.
I-20 is the longest, most boring road on the planet. But, I toodle along, comfortably driving 75. Life is good.
Hmm. Time to clear the windshield. I hit the button, and clean off two days worth of Atlanta gunk.
Then I see them. Deer, maybe 20 or 30 of them, lined up on the edge of the highway. One male deer catches my sight. He is bigger than the rental car. He has antlers bigger than my second grade teacher’s ass. He remains motionless on the side of the rode, until I pass him. The entire herd books it after I pass. Whew.
I count my blessings, and toodle along.
Somewhere along the way, close to Interstate 1 in South Carolina, I see a bright orange glow off in the distance. I’m probably a mile away, and it looks like a large orange is floating outside my windshield. Then I notice the smell.
There is a van completely engulfed in flames on the side of the road. I see emergency vehicles on the other side of the highway, so I continue to get into the far left lane to pass the burning van and get out of the way. As I passed the van, you could feel the heat in the car. It was awful. I drove in complete shock for the next couple of miles.
Then, I found you. Oh, you smarmy little shit. I only wish that while you stand and watch, that your car goes up in a fiery ball o’flame like that van did.
You fly up behind me while I am trying to pass a car in the slow lane. (I use my blinkers ferociously on the highway, by the way.) You bob and weave behind the two of us, so I gun the engine to pass the guy next to me. Oh, I’m sorry, Mr. GenitalWart, is that not good enough for you? You felt the need to zip past the guy in the right lane, cut him off, then cut me off? Fine, I’ll just accept the fact that you are a scum-sucking rectal troll, and be on my way.
Oh, then you decide to get cute. You do it again. I drive off the road, and come perilously close to hitting the trees. Then you pull up next to me, and point, and laugh, and get your jollies.
I’ve got news for you, you hemmorhoid-biting, leech-felching, ass monkey. I got your license plate number. And while the good ol’ boys of the South Carolina Highway Patrol have just decided to write it up as an incident, I have better plans for you my friend.
I hope your mother calls you to tell you she got herpes. From your brother. And that you may want to hit the clinic, yourself.
I hope that your girlfriend takes you on Jerry Springer. To tell you that she’s actually your grandfather.
I hope your dick shrivels up into a little, tiny ball. And that you can only take a piss by pulling a tube out of your ass.
I hope your teeth fall out, one at a time, at random times. And I hope you wake up one morning with one stuck in your eye.
I hope the clinic finally calls you back, by sending a priest in a bio-hazard body suit.
In short, I just want you to know what a Total Bastard you were last night. And that it will come back to you, tenfold.
(Whew. I feel better now. Not much of a rant, I guess, but it will do.)
