A few months ago I was driving the street and noticed the lane to my immediate right was beginning to taper off, soon to merge with the lane I was in. No matter, I kept on keeping on. I didn't notice the hatchback family wagon that was apparently trying to speed ahead of me till the right lane was at a near end. The driver of this family wagon, now incensed that he failed to beat me to the next light, feels compelled to pull along side me while we both careen down the street, only then to roll down his window to convey his feelings about what he felt had transpired by extending his middle finger. But just one, because while he might suffer from road rage, he insists on keeping a least one hand remaining on the wheel. I could respect that, but both middle fingers would have really said to me "wow, he's really worked up".
I spotted an assortment of rosaries hanging from this man's rear view mirror. You could ascertain from this that the man: A. struggles with the enormous guilt gifted to him for being a Catholic, B. consults the lord prior to going batshit crazy about seemingly innocuous vehicular maneuvers, or the most likely C. Is driving his Grandmothers car, and thinks that while it might look cool when Lil Wayne wears a couple rosaries, he can't understand why Granny is always sitting around counting the beads on her rosaries when she could be doing whatever it is that the elderly like to do. You know, make turkey soup, talk about when bread was a nickel, how things would better if Nixon was still in office, things like that.
I took comfort in knowing that if Mad Max was driving with a fistful of rosaries, then he was a man of faith and thus, could weather the reciprocation of mankind's favorite go-to gesture when a situation arrises when you absolutely have to tell another human being to go fuck themselves in the shortest time possible. It is the closest equivalent to a red sheet in regards to contending with other bull drivers in the great motoring bullfight. So I did the obvious, I flipped him off.
Mad Max proceeds to speed ahead of me, then cut me off, then slam on his brakes. After putting his car in park, he gets outs of his car and reaches behind his back. I'd like to have thought he was reaching behind his back to give me directions to a bitching party, business venture he's excited about, or more likely in Las Vegas, pamphlets depicting REAL GIRLS DIRECTLY TO YOU!!!! Take out all the pesky business of getting out into the big bad world to commiserate and find your love, when you could just rent the girl of your dreams for, an hour? You stud you.
He reaches back only to pull out his right hand that had now been fashioned into a pistol. You know, middle finger's the barrel, another gesture of kindness that more or less conveys a message that says " I would very much like to kill you right now, but my glock is in my car, not my Grandmothers." Seeing how I had clearly decided to flip off the pissed off motorist that I day, I didn't wait to see if he might have a consolation weapon, perhaps a butterfly knife or molotov cocktail, so after he pulled out his fully loaded hand pistol, I swerved around him and sped off.
I was quite relieved to know this man wasn't carrying around a pistol this day. But at the same time, I felt I had been duped by Grannies rosary collection and it inadvertently had putting me in a real nasty situation. And it got me thinking that maybe those rosaries could be color coded to indicate just how strong your faith is, and where your convictions reside. Cause you know, the rosaries would lead me to believe that outside of the concealed indiscretions the church has been accused of, if you're rolling around with ol Jesus swinging from your rearview instead of a nice smelling little tree, or a pair of fuzzy dice, that you actually subscribe to that particular religions teachings. And you're not, you know actually on parole and driving your Grandmothers car.
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