On the commute home tonight, some ass-clown in a Tahoe cuts me off just as I'm hitting the sweet spot of my acceleration, causing me to slam on my brakes. Which I hate to do. So, in typical Boston-driver fashion, I lay on my horn, flash some sign language, and then begin cursing him out loudly and ... quite creatively, to be honest with you. In fact, somehow my mouth starts going into detail about his, um, alleged shortcomings, and it's like my brain has no idea what's going on. The tirade was regretfully cut short by my laughter.
Yes, that's right, people. My own road rage cracked me up. It was good times. Wish you were there.
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