I spend an inordinate percentage of my time driving below the speed limit.
Metamuville Road is about nine miles long and has few passing zones, and the resident ROWFs treat its posted speed limits as if that's the speed at which their engine will reach critical mass and explode. So yesterday, quite typically and very much against my will, I was driving 42 in a 55 and 21 in a 25. When I finally had a chance to legally pass the culprit, I did, and as I passed, he swerved into my lane to "scare" me. And then he followed me. I led him away from my house, of course, and into a housing development where I could circle around. Coming at me head on, he lunged left of center and made me slam on the brakes to avoid a collision.
I don't know where this sexagenarian is from, but where I'm from, you don't do this unless you want your ass kicked. I grabbed the club I keep beside my driver's seat, and I charged out of my car and toward his, foaming with rage and spewing profanity. I'm not sure what sort of conflict he was hoping to provoke, but the look on his face suggested that events had taken a decidedly unexpected turn. "WHAT IS YOUR PROBLEM?!" I demanded.
"What's yours?"
"Nice retort. You pulled this stunt just for that?" I railed inarticulately about the legality of my pass and the illegality of what he just did. And then he started to speak. "Well, the way I see it--"
All my barely pent-up hostility gushed forth. "OH, SHUT THE FUCK UP. I'MSICKANDTIREDOFYOUFEEBLEOLDFARTSANDYOUROVER-
DEVELOPEDSENSESOFENTITLEMENT,DRIVINGSTUPIDAND WEARINGOUTMYEARS.GETOUTOFTHECARANDFINISHWHATYOU STARTEDORSHUTUPANDSTOPWASTINGMYTIME.JESUSCHRIST." Or words to that effect. I also vaguely remember predicting there'd be Geritol splattered all over his windshield, a line I've had ready for years and am most pleased to have finally had a chance to use.
Ironic that this all transpired within an hour of the below post.