Today’s moment of Atlanta Traffic Idiocy (in which I invent a new verb and obtain a new best friend):
8:18 a.m. I’m at a stoplight on South Hairston Road, waiting to turn left onto Wesley Chapel Road in hopes of eventually reaching I-20. There are 2 left-turn lanes, a straight lane and a right turn lane. I'm in the central left turn lane, not the one on the outside. In the straight lane there is, among other cars, a stinkin' Dodge minivan, white with Florida plates. When the light turns green lots of folk go, but the stinkin' Dodge minivan just sits there. People behind him, who want to go straight, are not pleased. A few horns blow. He sits some more, people are getting frustrated and more horns blow. You won't believe this bit, but I swear it's true: because Wesley Chapel Road is backed up, everybody is waiting in turns at their green arrow to make sure there is enough room to make a full turn, instead of riding someone's bumper to block the intersection. So the turn line is moving very slowly, I'm easing up at about 8 mph when suddenly, without preamble, the stinkin' Dodge minivan hauls his wheel left, stamps on the accelerator and hurls in front of me. I have to stamp on the brake - I'm not going fast, but he is 75% in front of me in about half a second. My lunch, purse, etc. go flying from the seat to the floor. A nice-looking older dude in a giant black Escalade is behind me, and he has to stamp on his brakes to keep from bashing me. Coffee anoints his dashboard. He is somewhat less than thrilled. Probably someone nearly bashed him, too, but I couldn't see behind his Escalade. It scared me, it truly did.
Then, in far less time than it takes to type it, I got virulently, horrendously pissed (as only a redhead can) because if someone mistakenly gets in the wrong lane or needs to merge, I'm happy to let them over, particularly out-of-towners. I'd have been more than willing to let Stinkin’ Minivan over, but he doesn’t bother to signal or allow anyone that chance; noooo, instead he scares the poo out of me and almost gets me Escaladen. (<---that's a new word I invented. Do you like it?) Although my mother (doubtless cringing as she reads) raised me to be a refined, well-mannered young lady, I roll down my window and scream at the top of my lungs, "This is Georgia, m*th*rf*ck*r! We use TURN SIGNALS up here!" The dude in the Escalade cracks up. Once we've turned, he pulls into the other lane alongside me, and gives me the latest teh kewl 'in' sign, the Soul Brutha Power Fist, complete with Double Pump. Grinning, he motions for me to let him over, which I do. So now the Escalade, not me, is behind the offending minivan. Escalade Dude proceeds to totally DAWG that jerkwater Floridian all the way to the interstate. He'd let a gap develop, then floor it to about a 1/2 inch from the minivan's bumper. It was the best possible revenge, because there WAS revenge but I didn't have to perform it myself; I got to enjoy it at no personal risk. Serves that rude dumbass minivan driver right. It was fun. Escalade Dude is my friend. He's got my back - we're tight like that.
MONTOYA DELENDA EST!
8:18 a.m. I’m at a stoplight on South Hairston Road, waiting to turn left onto Wesley Chapel Road in hopes of eventually reaching I-20. There are 2 left-turn lanes, a straight lane and a right turn lane. I'm in the central left turn lane, not the one on the outside. In the straight lane there is, among other cars, a stinkin' Dodge minivan, white with Florida plates. When the light turns green lots of folk go, but the stinkin' Dodge minivan just sits there. People behind him, who want to go straight, are not pleased. A few horns blow. He sits some more, people are getting frustrated and more horns blow. You won't believe this bit, but I swear it's true: because Wesley Chapel Road is backed up, everybody is waiting in turns at their green arrow to make sure there is enough room to make a full turn, instead of riding someone's bumper to block the intersection. So the turn line is moving very slowly, I'm easing up at about 8 mph when suddenly, without preamble, the stinkin' Dodge minivan hauls his wheel left, stamps on the accelerator and hurls in front of me. I have to stamp on the brake - I'm not going fast, but he is 75% in front of me in about half a second. My lunch, purse, etc. go flying from the seat to the floor. A nice-looking older dude in a giant black Escalade is behind me, and he has to stamp on his brakes to keep from bashing me. Coffee anoints his dashboard. He is somewhat less than thrilled. Probably someone nearly bashed him, too, but I couldn't see behind his Escalade. It scared me, it truly did.
Then, in far less time than it takes to type it, I got virulently, horrendously pissed (as only a redhead can) because if someone mistakenly gets in the wrong lane or needs to merge, I'm happy to let them over, particularly out-of-towners. I'd have been more than willing to let Stinkin’ Minivan over, but he doesn’t bother to signal or allow anyone that chance; noooo, instead he scares the poo out of me and almost gets me Escaladen. (<---that's a new word I invented. Do you like it?) Although my mother (doubtless cringing as she reads) raised me to be a refined, well-mannered young lady, I roll down my window and scream at the top of my lungs, "This is Georgia, m*th*rf*ck*r! We use TURN SIGNALS up here!" The dude in the Escalade cracks up. Once we've turned, he pulls into the other lane alongside me, and gives me the latest teh kewl 'in' sign, the Soul Brutha Power Fist, complete with Double Pump. Grinning, he motions for me to let him over, which I do. So now the Escalade, not me, is behind the offending minivan. Escalade Dude proceeds to totally DAWG that jerkwater Floridian all the way to the interstate. He'd let a gap develop, then floor it to about a 1/2 inch from the minivan's bumper. It was the best possible revenge, because there WAS revenge but I didn't have to perform it myself; I got to enjoy it at no personal risk. Serves that rude dumbass minivan driver right. It was fun. Escalade Dude is my friend. He's got my back - we're tight like that.
MONTOYA DELENDA EST!
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