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Today I drove Carly to Lester Pearson airport.

At around four, the weather was okay. Air Force One was in fine shape - for a Ford Tempo at least - which means that the little Service Engine Soon light was on and I felt like I was driving a bumper car around an ice rink. No spectacular billows of smoke flowing out the front of my hood this time, thankfully (although they look pretty cool).

We talked about cakes decorated with candy penises and frosting vaginas. We talked about San Francisco and why it's gay and how many lesbian bars happen to be down there. Results inconclusive, but somehow San Francisco has become a beacon of flamboyance in a nation turning dull and sober with religious retardation. It's a Good Thing.

Carly packs way too many shoes for a week long trip. SIX PAIRS. She explained this: "Well, I have sandals because it's warmer, heels for when I want to wear my long pants..." and so forth. I guess this makes sense, but it still doesn't, at the same time. Still, they are all neatly packed in rows in a mini-suitcase, and it makes me laugh.

Once I hit the 401, I remembered that I haven't had windshield washer fluid in my car in like six months. I remember this every time I go on the highway actually, but somehow it never seems to help. Because I still don't have any fucking washer fluid. I push the button and the wipers mash dirty car residue all over the window. No fluid.

So I'm peering through like some kind of ostrich, trying not to kill us both, and the radio is playing eight Green Day songs in a row and Carly tells me about her sister who ate six bars of Ex-Lax (????) and then we're at the airport. It's efficient and well labeled. Lester Pearson must be proud to have such a bustling centre of metal birds named after him. Carly's off, six pairs of shoes in hand, and I'm on my way back and a storm hits.

It's not a very bad kind of storm, and actually I was kind of liking it, because snow is just as good as washer fluid for cleaning that damnable windshield. But then came the flurries and the wind and the paranoia and the sea of brake lights and sensibilities kicked in. I looked at the radio clock and tried to decide when I would be back at home, away from this neverending stream of automobilia. I guessed 6:30. Always round to the nearest half hour.

Somebody in an SUV tailgated me for a while. It was one of those times when the fast lane is somehow going slower than the middle mundane one, and I wondered why this motherfucker didn't pass me and fuckin' plug away if he was in such a rush, instead of harassing me. I always like to attribute the worst characteristics to drivers in these kind of situations, so I pictured Mr. SUV as a smug suit on a cell phone: "What? WHAT? Hold on Larry, some punk kid in a fuckin' Tempo is going too slow for my big beefy troop transporter here. Why won't he drive faster?? ... Larry? Oh yeah, yeah, buy those little bastards from the slave trader. We're bumping up sneaker production this week, and we also need more meat for the company barbeque."

So this infant devourer comes in real close and his oversized headlights are staring in at me, boring a hole in the back of my head. This is really too much, so I calmly lift my right hand and give the SUV the finger. Fuck you, Sport Utility Vehicle. Fuck your gas guzzling and your bulk. I don't know why people do these road-rage-y things, much less myself - I mean, it's crude and offensive and probably unnecessary - but it made me feel infinitely better. I don't know if Mr. SUV saw me, but he backed off a bit and I was smug in my immoral victory.

Now I pictured an old man, muttering to himself about How I Never and These Disrespectful Kids These Days and Shocking. It's nice that most old people will be less and less like that conservative, disapproving stereotype in the coming years, although I doubt old people of any generation will ever enjoy getting the finger. Maybe they should learn not to follow so goddamn close.

The storm was hitting its full fury as I pulled back into Waterloo. I was sliding a bit, fishtailing down Bridgeport, but that was all right. You get extra points for hitting people with the back end of your car. If your car has saw blades that come out of the hubcaps like a James Bond special, you can pretty much guarantee a shitload of points. Sadly I had a score of zero as I pulled back into the driveway, five minutes after my 401 guesstimation. Maybe next time.

But wait, is he talking about the points or the time guessing thing?? Is he going to go on a wild rampage of revenge, forever scarred by the evil manipulations of SUV Jack-off Man and killing pedestrians left and right??

Muahahahaha!

Posted by Chris at 01:13 AM >> Commentations (2)