A Tale of Skinny and Smokey

NOTICE-THIS IS AN EQUAL OPPORTUNITY TONGUE-IN-CHEEK BLOG.

I was waiting for my oldest daughter to get out of middle school today. I usually go about 30 minutes early, and sit in the car and read. It wasn't a hot day, about 80 degrees. I had the windows open, enjoying the warm before the snow and sleet hit the fan next month or so...breathing the fresh air, and reading my book.

Interrupting my revelry is an obnoxious muffler and I look up to see an old geezer...most likely about my age...but taunt, skinny, sunken cheeks...old. Not the noble, Buddha type, mellow JJ old...with a noble Roman nose, and pleasant attitude to all whom he meets, type old. No, he was barroom fly, gnarled, near death, gravel voice, skinny stink, drawers sticking to his crotch, old...and, driving a honker Ford F250 pick up. I am 99.9% sure he had no teeth.

(Skinny old man depicted below):

Before someone takes me to task for the F250 derogatory comment, I want to tell you, I have owned two pick-up trucks, both of which were little ol' Toyotas...before Toyota caved into the American indulgence of gas ass sucking 8 cylinder, 4 wheel drive, kick your fucking ass if you can't pull a goddamn cruise ship to the local lake, pick-up mania.

My Toyotas both were itty bitty. The first one, a 1984 SR5, was called, "A Sports Car In Disguise" by the Toy people...and it was. I loved that truck...a four cylinder, which got about 25 mile mph...this was good in 1984. I drove that sweetie to 275,000 miles. By contrast, the Ford F250 gets about, 2.5 mph. It was meant to haul a gaggle of elephants and several sacks of peanuts at the same time...and any of the Boeing 700 series airliners. Damn a bunch of gas mileage. See what I mean?

I have also been taken to task in the past for judging someone according to his (never her) wheels. But one must understand, I lived in Southern Cal several years, and in Southern Cal, Californians know a very simple truth...you are what you drive. So I for one, have never known a true thinking person, with whom I had any iota of commiseration, who drove a Ford petrol sucking F250. Never. I am sure there are exceptions to the rule. But puhleeeeeeeeeze...don't even bring it up. I don't give a shit. Ford F250s are driven, FOR THE MOST PART, by egocentric morons.

Of course, he parks directly opposite me, on the other side of the street...going in the opposite direction that the school would like parents picking up their children...to go. If there are vehicles going the other way on the narrow street, it is a nightmare when one is trying to get away after pick-up...Five Star shithead, for that alone...and he gets 3 more stars for being butt ass ugly.

Probably I should have prefaced this post with...I quit smoking almost ten years ago, after a lifetime of smoking. I dodged the cancer bullet, but clogged my pipes, and had to be reamed out...and, I have a stint implanted in my neck. But...other than that, free and clear. Well, OK, there is the arthritis thing which was probably triggered by...never mind.

I am sitting there, expanding my mind and my lungs, when I realized that my lungs were not expanding and actually hurting. I look across the street and see that the dried skin geezer is smoking, and the smoke is drifting my way. I look at him...look at the cigarette...back at his eyes...he looks away...but...does not put out the cigarette, or roll up his window. Now I need to decide whether saying something...or, walking across the street and grabbing the SOB by the throat and killing him, because I can, and because I know all of the deadly pressure points in the human body...or, some other mode of action is appropriate.

I decide that my daughter will be out of school soon, and we are trying to teach her to be a gentle but questioning soul...and...killing this mother fucker, probably is not a good object lesson (even though smoking in this day and age is definitely a killing matter.) Not to mention, I don't want to go to prison. Or even county jail. Or even a Mayberry jail, for that matter...and my daughter would have to walk the 18 blocks home.

I take the wanker, I am older and wiser, option. I start the car...roll up the windows...turn on the A/C...and...seethe...casting kill visuals every few minutes, his way. He knows. He definitely knows that I am a recessed violent person and that my main brain wants to commit violent acts...on him. He knows. I know he knows...he knows I know he knows, and part of me wants him to open his no lipped mouth and say something. Part of me. But he doesn't.

And now here I am, sitting there, waiting for my beautiful daughter, introspecting, and who-hawing my psyche and wondering just why I want to end this miserable cretin's life, or at the very least, stick that cigarette in his hairy nose...lighted end, up. Because I realized that my inclination was to confront this Old Milwaukee guzzler. I wanted to yell in his haired ear that I did not quit the weed many long years ago just to be fucked up by his weedness, sorry ass. And that his liberties do not include causing the misery of others. And then after killing him I want to know just who in hell did he vote for...assuming that his sorry butt could read well enough to vote. But I know, KNOW, mind you, exactly who he voted for. Because it was at that moment of realization that I noticed the sticker. That sticker. The one that really gets me going, even more than tobac smoke...in my face. The one that speaks of liberty, and rights, and how we all should attend presidential speeches with our side arms, strapped around our dicks, because GOD says Jesus would have. The NRA sticker and it's companion sticker..."This truck protected by Smith and Wesson." It is at this point that I realize, he is sitting there thinking, "if that motherfucker says one word, I am going to blow his fucking sorry ass away." Meaning, me.

Sometimes, one has to adjust, and punt, and shut the fuck up.