“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
Them digits just ain’t going today. I’ve been sick since Friday, and I’m convinced there’s a secret nerve that connects my throat to my fingers. The arc we’ve been entertaining will conclude this week–it’s only about halfway done right now–and really it needs to be put to bed soon. Just. Like. Me.
Stress level => 50
Struck by the craftiest of ideas, you roll down your window and say, “Frank…”
A. “I’m just kidding. Wrestling is completely real.”
B. “I’m only joshing. I can get you free skybox tickets.”
C. “Those shorts really go well with nothing much at all.”
D. “Please stop balding on my lawn.”
E. “I got you a present. Check my trunk.”
You chose B. Stress level => 45
Frank scans the area warily for his wife before running to you with the air of a desperate man, his face the very picture of neediness.
“You gotta help me,” he gasps. “Sheila says I can’t have any ticket money until I put my kid through college. I told her, ‘But that’s not for another year!’ She made me sleep on the couch for a month.”
“Listen…” you begin.
A. “Sheila’s pregnant. I helped.”
B. “Anytime you’re hungry, y’know, I dropped my Pop Tart for you.”
C. “I double-checked and I still don’t care.”
D. “If you lend me your car, I’ll pick up the tickets on my way home.”
E. “My car will actually turn into a ticket if you get behind and push.”
You chose D. Stress level => 35
“Really?” he says incredulously. “You’d do that for me?”
“Of course,” you nod and shake his hand.
He stealthily enters his house through the back porch, sneaks through the den without alerting his wife, and returns to you whipped but proud, triumphant in his impromptu guile.
“Here,” he whispers as he hands you his keys. “I–”
“Frank! I’m doing the dishes right now,” Sheila shouts through the front door, “and I’m not sure what part of ‘drying’ you don’t understand.”
“Be right there, dear!”
Frank turns to you, a wild look in his eyes.
“Please. I need this. Promise me.”
You look at the key, then look at him.
A. “I’m sorry. Who are you?”
B. “What’s that, Sheila? Your husband’s getting tickets behind your back?”
C. “You have my word.”
D. “The real question is, ‘How do they know when to shoot the puck?'”
E. “I…I love you.”
You chose C. Stress level => 30
“Thanks,” he sighs. “You’re the best neighbor a guy could have.”
Frank trudges despondently to his house. You turn your attention to his minivan, which to any onlooker would resemble a shiny galleon of the suburbs, its backseat awash in glittering wrappers, sunbaked clothes, and magazines. You unlock the car and climb into the driver’s seat. Your nostrils reel at a foul stench.
Like a bad omen, the keys jangle in protest and drop through a crack, finally coming to rest in the backseat. What a time to be clumsy. You reach behind and stick your hand deep in the pile of trash, only to be surprised.
Cat vomit.
The garbage heap gives an angry shake and out pops a cantankerous tabby. Did Frank lock his beloved Woof in the car again?
“C’mere, Woof! Do you want to go home?” you say in your best feline voice.
Woof spits at you and hisses.
“Alright, you little fucker. I don’t have time for this.”
You grab the cat by the scruff of her neck and…
A. Set her free through the window.
B. Twist.
C. Cram her in the mailbox.
D. Wish she were declawed.
E. Talk to her as if she truly understands and gives a shit.
You chose C. Stress level => 30
“Frank is busy right now,” you tell the cat. “Let me show you the waiting room.”
You furtively look around for any card-carrying ASPCA members before stuffing Woof in the mailbox, making sure to put up the little red flag. 8:21 AM. You still have nine minutes to make it to work.
“Poor guy. He simply doesn’t get it,” you mutter. “And what’s a skybox?”
Stress level => 22