MOSES TESTICLE SCHWARTZ
Minding my own business, I drive down the road, put on my blinker and turn left. For any number of reasons, the car behind me felt compelled to honk at me with fury as she passed. I know there is road rage out there, and know many folks that are experts at it, however, I’m not one of them.
As a matter of fact, I’m not sure if my horn even works! If someone in front of me is driving too slow, I go around them. If someone turns without putting their blinker on, chances are I’m busy thinking about other things besides yelling at them from my car. I mean really, the yelling, the hand gestures, the language. All that taking place from the imaginary bubble of one’s own vehicle, with a very low probability of being seen or heard by the offending driver.
One time long ago, I knew some folks that were dazzling road-ragers. One night they were all drunk and I had to drive them home. I had one next to me in the passenger seat, and two behind me in the back seat. As they all sat there with their eyes half open, drooling and mumbling to themselves, an incident occurred. We were in the center lane and, a car that was in the right lane, cut in front of me. No blinker and a little too close for comfort, I slowed down and I think my eye brows raised up a little. But my passengers unleashed a rash of expletives that would embarrass Lenny Bruce, Richard Pryor or even Sarah Silverman.
I silently giggled to myself while they reprimanded me for not yelling too. I told them I could do it if I wanted to. They spit out an intoxicated challenged that I didn’t have it in me. I said, “Fine, the next time someone crosses our path wrongly or gives me any cause, I will let you see the scary road-rager inside of me.” Apparently, late on a Saturday night, there are many swerving drivers on the road and before long, someone from the left lane cut in front of us, with dangerous proximity. The gang started yelling, ” give it to ’em… let’s hear it!!! Rage brother… rage on!!!”
So in my awkward mellow way, I dug down deep and found some holy person’s first name, I attached it to a woman’s intimate body part referred to in slang, followed by the last name of this great religious leader. Apparently, this manufacturing of curse words was something they had never heard before, as the drooling drunkards got all quiet, complimented me on the blasphemous severity of my religious profanity, and all started to giggle. It’s been years since I hung with that crew, and I’m sure they have assimilated my creative curse into their daily repertoire of raging rants.
Meantime, people still honk at me for no reason that I’m aware of and I continue to just shake my head about the silliness of it all.