Idiots behind the Wheel

Subtitles under consideration for this blog included:

From Mr. Ovbious:
Left-turn lane means TURN LEFT

From Mr. Sarcastic:
Learn how to drive your big fucking SUV, dumbass.

From Jules Winnfield:
ENGLISH, motherfucker. Do you speak it?

So this morning, like every morning, I'm headed to Dunkin Donuts to get my 24 ounces of love ... a big-ass coffee to get me going in the morning.

Now if you're not from Columbus, there are several things you might not know:

1. We have a lot of people who drive SUV's ... and Minivans (right Steph-a-nee?) and drive them poorly.
2. We have a lot of turning lanes and access roads because we are the strip mall capital of the midwest.
3. We have a lot of immigrants from African nations.

Add that all up and you get 6.

(3 plus 2 plus 1 equals 6. Yep, I graduated college math.)

But add up the context of those statements and you get my morning.

So this morning, like every morning, I'm headed to Dunkin Donuts to get my 24 ounces of love ... a big-ass coffee to get me going in the morning.

And if you're not from my part of Columbus, you might not know the intersection I'm referring to ... so I've (badly) sketched out a map in Paint to give you an idea of what I'm talking about:

So I'm in lane B ... which is the lane you use to go straight or turn right and head west on Dublin-Granville Road (State Route 161).

Some big-ass black SUV is in Lane A ... which is the lane you use to turn left and head east on Dublin-Granville Road (State Route 161).

So when the light turns green and I move forward across Dublin-Granville Road (State Route 161) ... and the big-ass black SUV moves forward as well, both of us crossing the west-bound lanes of Dublin-Granville Road (State Route 161). Just like the traffic department planned.

And here's where our paths should have parted ways, like fate-crossed lovers leaving after being each other's last call casualty at the bar the night before, waking up realizing you don't even know who you're sleeping beside, let alone what prompted you go home with them, and what you might have done, and why you're as sore as you are ... but I digress.

Nope. Not to be. Like the hook-up-turned-girlfriend you can't get rid of (or the social disease she gives you), the big-ass black SUV decides to keep going straight and doesn't turn left and head east on Dublin-Granville Road (State Route 161) like the traffic department planned it. Nope. Big-ass black SUV decides to go straight, like me, and try to come into my lane, forgetting that Newton's law states, in a nutshell, that no two objects can occupy the same space at the same time.

Realizing I'm about to become a lugnut to the tire of this big-ass black SUV, I speed up. And I don't even give it the one-finger salute because it's early, I'm not angry (yet) and don't feel like taking the risk of getting a 9mm answer to my suggestion.

So then I make the right-turn onto the access road that leads me to Dunkin Donuts.

As does does the big-ass black SUV.

And I turn into Dunkin Donuts.

As does the big-ass black SUV.

And I pull into a parking space.

And right beside me pulls the big-ass black SUV.

But only after pausing long enough to let me open my door before whipping right beside me, even though there were two other parking spaces open. And the big-ass black SUV had to stop before taking me, and my door, out.

Okay.

Now I'm on full alert. I'm the most passive motherfucker you'll ever meet, unless I'm threatened, or those I love are threatened. Then I'm on watch like hungry dog. And this motherfucker has almost hit me, TWICE. Granted, I'm driving a white car, and yes, it snowed, and yes, visibility in a big-ass SUV is limited because they're pretty high off the ground. But still.

So I turn to look at the (for lack of a better term) person driving this SUV and determine their intent. At the same time, the passenger door opens and a tiny little black female dismounts from this big-ass black SUV and looks at me. And apparently says something in some bush-language that wasn't ebonics, and wasn't any of the normal African dialects that I recognize from hearing in my neighborhood, and from my upstairs neighbors. Nope, she's clicking at me. Yeah. Speaking in clicks.

And the driver's door opens and out steps a 100-pound, 6-foot tall guy who says something to me in a very heavily accented African language punctuated with some hand gesture like I was supposed to turn right at the light.

And the only thing in my brain was this:

ENGLISH, MOTHERFUCKER. DO YOU SPEAK IT?

So I look at him and say "You were in the left-turn lane. I was in the straight or right-turn lane" and he looks at me like a dog watching a card trick. Realizing this is a language difference as well as a difference of opinion I just shake my head and walk away.

So he starts clicking at me.

And what pissed me off was I had no way of clicking back.

Sure, I could have clicked and clacked, but how would I know if I was telling him to go pound salt or pound me? I'm sure he told me to go fuck myself in a series of nice-sounding soothing background clicks as I walked in the store and ordered my coffee.

But the best part ... he walked in behind me and ordered, in perfect-yet-accented English.

So I gave him my best stare, and told him that he shouldn't go straight from the left turn lane. It can cause accidents.

Then I threw a scalding hot cup of coffee in his face.

He screamed in agony and fell to the ground. I laughed and followed that up with a couple of Vanderlai Silva stomp-kicks to his burned face.(Not really, just seeing if you're paying attention)

In reality, I just smiled at my African Friend (to add the obligatory music snob reference to my blog so it's complete. Yes, Michelle, that's for you!) and walked away.

Got into my car, realized that while we might pay the same amount for a gallon of gas, I get about three times the miles per gallon.

Clackety-Clack, motherfucker.