Saturday, August 06, 2011

Pancakes Then Running Is The Wrong Way Round

The title has nothing to do with the post except this happened on the run I just finished and, having finished, I'm feeling somewhat glurky in my stomach.

I was on the second, homeward half of my 6km run this morning. When I run my six, I really only have two choices: north to the Sunnyside Mall or South just past Fisherman's Market. On Tuesday I went south so today (just not for the halibut) I ran north.

On the way back, a car made a left-hand turn coming out of the mall where the Cora's is. There's two entrances/exits to that place: the safer one where you can use the left-hand turning lane and this one, the one farther south where this guy came out in his p.o.s. Neon and almost got creamed by a "Vans on the Go" Van which is, you should know, a really big truck.

The guy driving the van hit the brakes and blew his horn.

The passenger in the Neon raised his arm out the window and gave him the finger.


I thought I'd like to have a word with this guy.

Yes, I thought, maybe next time the guy driving the van could just never mind about the braking and the blowing his horn (so annoying!) and just run over you. And maybe it might not kill your stupid ass and you'd only get so busted up you could still stick your middle finger up through all the broken safety glass and let him know that somehow HE'S still the idiot, the guy in the van, not you (asshole)or maybe you might have your back broken and you'll only be able to weakly whisper at him with harsh gasping breaths, "Fuck you, you fuck," or maybe you'd just be dead next time, that would learn him.

Fucking moron.

It amazes me and it galls me that there are so many idiots driving other people into peril and they, THEY have the nerve to react angrily to the person who's lifespan he's just been shortened by five years or so. To get the fuck-you finger from the idiot who was in the wrong in the first place.

So as soon this was done (left-hand turn, horn, finger) the Neon had to stop for the red light at the end of Union street, me running up beside him.

So you'd like to have a word with this guy?

Well, here's your chance.

I get up next to him and I can see the guy in the passenger seat. He's some Whiskey-Tango gangster type, wearing a hip-hop ball cap with the wide, flat brim, weird funky facial hair, neck tattos and at least one black inch-and-a-half diameter earring that spreads out his earlobe and makes it sag down from his ear like a pierced testicle.

So I decided not to say anything. Because I was scared to.

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