An idiot has his driving questioned and comes up short.

May 17, 2009

Through some wizardry that I, and everyone else here on Planet Man, cannot possibly comprehend, my computer defaults to once I sign out of my Hotmail account. This is a news site for New Zealand and something I only really glance at on my way to check for Facebook messages.

But that glance did reveal has a feature where its readers are encouraged to vote Yes or No in answer to a daily question. Usually these queries are fairly innocuous: “Are you sleeping in a cardboard box yet, you unemployed bum?” Or, “Is Auckland the best ever city in the country or what?”

That sort of fluff. But this weekend, the question was, “Have you ever abused a dangerous driver?”

Now, that one did catch my attention.

It also summoned this memory:

We’re in Viking Woman’s car. She’s driving because, well, it’s her car. We’re not yet married and so are (supposedly) on our best behaviour, the idea being to impress the other person before releasing the beast once the wedding vows have been uttered and the wills notarized.

“That knob in the pickup truck behind me is tailgating,” Viking Woman says at one point.

“Just keep driving the speed limit and, if he’s in that much of a hurry, he’ll pass us,” I say.

“I am driving the speed limit,” she says through gritted teeth. “And he’s still right on my bumper. I’m starting to get pissed off.”

“He’s just being a jerk,” I say. “We’ll be OK as long as you don’t do anything stupid.”

“Bugger this!” Viking Woman says, turning sharply into a driveway, which just happens to belong to the local cinema.

And, of course, Mr. Pickup Truck turns in as well. Except, where we swing wide to the right, he drives straight ahead and stops in front of the theatre to read the marquee.

“OK,” I say, ” he’s gone. Now we can . . . ”

Viking Woman slams on the brakes, bolts from the car and trots up to the fellow’s window. She raps sharply on the glass and, when he lowers the window, says something that causes the man to recoil.

And then she’s back in the car and looking at me staring at her.


“Jesus, lady, what did you say to him?”

“I simply stated,” she says, “that it was obvious from the way he was driving that he has a small penis.”

I know what you’re thinking:

“Alright! High five! Way to go! And that’s why they call her Viking Woman, sucka!”

This is what I was thinking:

“He’s going to ignore Viking Woman, the person who actually insulted him, and instead come around to my side of the car, rip the door off, grab me by the end of my mullet and hit me so hard my grandchildren will bleed.”

Fortunately for the well-being of future Irelands, the doofus simply sat in his truck, stunned by the verbal onslaught, and then drove off. Very slowly.

I’m guessing he was several blocks away before he thought of a good comeback. By that time, my heartbeat had nearly returned to normal and my defensive posture — frozen in place, eyes bulging — had relaxed enough for me to check my shorts.

Several years have passed now but Viking Woman still does the bulk of the driving. For the most part, I let her go out alone. I think I’ll live longer that way.


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