My Mini-Van of Rage

When I get behind the wheel, I turn into a primitive cave-man


Everyone who drives a vehicle experiences road rage, to some degree (although I also suffer from cycling rage and pedestrian rage - I just rage a lot, really). I don't know about you, the reader, but I personally go batshit fucking insane behind the wheel when someone acts like a moron in traffic. I shout the most gloriously awful insults and threats; I clench my teeth and squeeze the wheel with a murderer's death-grip, and hatred erupts from every pore in a high-pressure stream. There have been many, many times when I have fantasized running other vehicles off of the road - then squealing to a halt on the shoulder, running back with the handle of my car-jack and beating the offending party into an unrecognizable mess in the ditch.

I mean, I fucking lose my shit sometimes. I dunno ... its actually pretty funny. I should get a dashcam and tape my maniacal tirades sometime, post that shit to YouTube. My outbursts are just so over the top, reason-out-the-window crazy that it's actually pretty hilarious, and would make for great dialogue in a gangster movie.

The funniest thing about my road rage is that I probably incite the same violent hatred in other motorists, as well - everyone does dumb things in traffic, sometimes. I should learn how to mellow the fuck out ...


Road Rage


It was on - the guy was coming for him. Dan seized his nameless opponent by the shoulders of his T-shirt and they fell in a clutch onto the blacktop, still hot and sticky from the heat of the summer sun. The two men rolled in between their cars, trading punches, short and sharp in the limited distance between them. Dan snarled, "Fuck you, cocksucker, you cut me off! YOU cut ME off!" and he began to butt the top of his forehead into his opponent's jaw. The fucking motherfucking son of a whore winced back from this damaging deluge and wriggled like a fish: suddenly, his arm was snaking down between them and he had Dan's nutsack in a death grip.

"Yooooouuuu dirty cock-SUCKER!" he shrieked, and it all came pouring out, all of it; all of the bile and pain and humiliating, day-to-day degradations erupted forth in a black, savage fountain. The electric strength of uncontrollable rage slammed through his body - Dan scrambled on top of the other man and pistoned his fists down into the shit-heel's face, over and over again. The motherfucker was Dan's arrogant boss, he was Dan's childhood bully, he was the man who had stolen the heart of Dan's first true love: he was every piece of shit who had ever wiped their feet on him like a worn-out mat. The man went limp but Dan didn't stop, couldn't stop - he bit the guy's ear off and cracked his larynx, he gouged his eyes deeply and jack-hammered the man's head off of the pavement, bang-bang-bang-whup-crack-ssssplort ...

Dan found himself in his car again, his face and mouth and hands and shirt splattered and stippled with blood. He was shaking and breathing raggedly. He turned the key and squealed away from the motionless thing on the road in a dirty plume of burning rubber - behind him, a car had already stopped to check out what was happening. His plates - did they see them? Dan looked at himself in the rearview mirror, long and hard. He was afraid of the face that stared back at him.

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