Dear Sir In The Raised Pickup Truck,
I’m writing to thank you for flipping me the bird on the road yesterday. With a clenched fist and rock solid middle appendage pointed violently towards the sky, it was an excellent execution of an old time favorite. To think that you were able to pull this off with your left hand makes me wonder what feats might be possible if you’d the opportunity to use the strong side.
I suppose it was my fault for incurring on your road while attempting to walk the tightrope of a two foot wide shoulder. Despite it’s narrowness, I can only begin to comprehend the gal I had in the moment, wavering 6 inches into the lane.
Bikers, am I right? So annoying! We just boot scoot along on the far right side of the road and get in your way. Talk about a bunch of sticks in the mud. Those extra 10 seconds you take to be mindful of our presence and ease slightly over the yellow line could be the difference between making the happy hour “8 wings for 50 cents” Tuesday special and paying full price. What are you… made of money?
Geez.
It made perfect sense for you to lay on your horn as that 20 mile gust of wind swept across the plains from the east, knocking me by surprise as you approached 100 feet behind me. From your trucks cab, it sure didn’t seem like the gust was that strong, and if it was… isn’t the prudent thing for me to bail out altogether into the thick gravel/sand mixture further to the right of the shoulder. I'm big enough to admit when I’ve made a mistake… and that was clearly on me.
About a mile before we fatefully crossed paths, did you happen to notice the yellow sign with a bike on it? It said something about sharing the road, but now that I think about it, it’s awful rude of me to assume you’d be paying attention at that exact moment. I mean seriously, are we supposed to read just anything that’s along the side of the road? Ridiculous. I shouldn’t have brought it up. Next thing you know I’m going to start harassing you about the 6 pack of Coors light in the passenger seat next to you. Or was it technically now down to a 3 pack? Nah, I’m just joshing you man.
I thought I heard the faint refrain of Chumbawumba as you sped past me. Are you also a fan of “Now That’s What I Call Music: Volume 1?” Those tracks are fire, bro.
The roar of your engine as you angrily swerved back into the lane that is rightfully yours has left me wondering, however, and now I feel pressured to ask: Does that thing have a hemi?
Anyways, I hope that this letter finds you well and that the rest of your trip went down smoothly. Did you end up making it for the happy hour? I really hope so. Who knows, maybe you can give me a ride to the next one, assuming you don’t run me off the road again.
Sarcastically Yours,
Ski