Wednesday, October 12, 2005

“It’s not like Frank deserves the tickets, even if they existed in the first place,” you declare halfheartedly over the din of the radio. “Right? I mean, he’s a total schmuck.”

Slightly remorseful, your conscience in the throes of near turnaround, you sigh as you make a right onto Wendhart Avenue, a full five minutes before your biz dev meeting starts.

The minivan lurches with a sickening crunch. You check your rearview mirror and…

A. Chortle softly.
B. Cough and pretend nothing happened.
C. Chortlecough to save a few seconds.
D. Luxuriously brush your hair and neigh like a colt.
E. Fake a look of horror for the driver next to you.

You chose E. Stress level => 25

Good thing it was only a cat, perhaps distantly related to Woof. Some people are seized by guilt if they run over so much as a ladybug, but not you. Well, there was that one time last Thursday when you hit the guy in the wheelchair or, more precisely, the guy in the wheelchair who wouldn’t share the road. You felt a twinge of something upon impact. Turns out it was hunger.

Four minutes left. Who invented the three-strikes policy? Total rubbish. Why couldn’t they round it to five strikes? And were you just cut off by that bastard in the ’89 Accord with the busted muffler?

Caught in a fit of rage, you switch to the other lane, pull up next to the fella, and give him a wicked look. There is a need for verbal justice. You roll down your window and shout, “Hey, assho–”

It’s your pastor.

In a decidedly inspired moment, you…

A. Flip him the birdie.
B. Tithe.
C. Do that thing where you pretend to be a bunny on Noah’s Ark.
D. Go monk.
E. Act like a reasonable adult, ignore him, and continue on your way.

You chose A. Stress level => 27

“You old coot!” you scream. “Lemme tell you about the hermeneutics of 2 Middlefingerkiah 4:11.”

You preach it, and his eyes widen in shock as you peel off to your exit. Oh, well. He gave stale communion wafers anyway.

Your perceived victory is cut short, however, when you hit a speed bump at 55 MPH. Divine retribution. The trash in the backseat animates with a pronounced fury, launching a bit of cat vomit onto your shirt in the process. Why, Woof, why? Why can’t it ever be easy? Two minutes left.

Stress level => 34