Sorry about my tone lately. It’s been a “heavy flow” week. I promise to be funny tomorrow, dammit.
Now, on to today’s post. It’s an open letter to a L.O.U.D. that got what she had coming. Too bad it came at the expense of an innocent driver while her kids were in the car with her.
Dear Woman of Neutral Ethnic Origin (so I won’t be labeled a racist) Driving Her Escalade Full of Kids Through the McDonald’s Drive Thru:
Hey there. It’s me. The, uh, “girl” from yesterday. I know you’re probably still recovering from being colossally bitch-slapped by karma, but I felt there was a real need share how your ignorant behavior affected me and the rest of the people in the drive-thru line prior to your “accident.”
First of all, I was at the drive-thru on my lunch break. The difference between a lunch break and a lunch hour is 30 minutes. So, in almost the same amount of time that it took you to enter and exit, I could have gone to the bank, gone to the post office to mail some letters, and then picked up my dry cleaning. On those kinds of days, when I’ve got more things to do in 30 minutes than you probably do all day, I use the drive-thru and eat while running errands or chow down on my way back to work.
Yesterday, I’d already used up most of my lunch break and had planned on using what little time I had left to eat while driving back to the office. However, because you took your time ordering at the speaker, and then added on to your order at the cashier window, I was forced to use the rest of my lunch break watching your kids fight, listening to you yell at them, and then avoiding their gazes as they all began flipping me the bird. I got a good picture of them, and briefly thought about including the photo with this commentary, but then I had to remind myself that I don’t post images of underage kids not wearing their seat belts without their parents’ permission.
I’d also like to bring to your attention that, after you decided to stop and park your SUV in front of the trash can at the drive-thru’s exit to gather up straw wrappers, french fry containers, and empty ketchup packets, me and the rest of the people that you blocked in gathered together to plan an assault that involved a blow torch, ice pick, and a man named “Tiny.”
AND, do you think that maybe you could have cleaned your hands of french fry grease (and perhaps ate them one at a time instead of grabbing a fistful and cramming them down your throat) BEFORE you decided to answer your skinny razor phone? Because MAYBE (and, I’m just speculating here) the combination of the oil on your hand and your two-inch nails could have been what caused you to drop your phone. (Lest we forget that it’s actually ILLEGAL to talk on the phone without a hands-free device. But I digress.)
NOW. Instead of just letting the phone fall because you were pulling out of the parking lot, you decided to slam on on the brakes halfway between the sidewalk and oncoming traffic in order to retrieve it! What kind of idiot does this, especially with kids in the car?
And the guy driving in your direction had no choice but to slam his little white truck into your pimped-out ride.
Have you ever seen what someone looks like after their airbag deploys? It’s not pretty. But you weren’t concerned about that. Instead, you asked me why I had called 911. As if the chaos you’d caused could have been cleared up with a few apologies and an exchange of insurance information.
Oh! And sorry that I decided to stay around until the police arrived. I wanted to be sure that someone gave the authorities a proper account of what transpired prior to your being hit. So, making all your kids put their seat belts on was a serious waste of time. At least they were all okay.
And, I’m also sorry that you weren’t able to carry out your threat of writing down my license plate number so you could “look me up” after I wouldn’t give you one of my cards. Being parked the way I was, only the front of my car was exposed to you. And my front license plate had just fallen off the day before.
Too bad Mr. Chippie didn’t see that. I might have gotten a ticket!
Anyway, I hope reading this helps you do less harm to innocent drivers, your children, and yourself next time you’re on the road — pending the repair of your Escalade’s crumpled front quarter-panel, of course.
Kathleen B. Lancaster
A.K.A. The “Stupid Bitch That Didn’t Know What She Was Talking About” from yesterday.
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