Blind Truckers and Virtual Shots...

Annnnnd the follow up to Death being at our side...

I'm headed to the office this morning, slightly groggy even though I've already ingested enough caffeine to give a rhino a heart attack. AC/DC is jamming that they're Back in Black. My mind is churning over a million things... the economy, creating a new branding campaign for a client, an essay I have to write for my daughter's teacher, upcoming Context and the effects tequila has on Kelli Dunlap.

I'm getting close to the exit where I need to turn when this rig just starts coming on over like Freddy-be-frigged RIGHT INTO MY LANE. No signal... no "Move, you fucker" hand waving... just heading right on over. He came so close I thought he was going to shave off my bumper... close enough that I not only could see the row of bird shit on his bumper, but can tell you that the birds ate someone's poppy-seed bagel earlier in the day.

I wasn't in his blind spot... I was right at the ass-end of his rig. I had to slam on my brakes and pull over onto the side of the highway or else accept the fate of getting the front of my truck slammed into. Behind me, several cars swerved and braked, one of which passed by, looked at me, pointed at the trucker and mouthed a series of obscenities that i couldn't hear, but I'm sure would've been entertaining had I heard them. I saw him ask if I was all right, then keep on going.

I then proceeded to gun my truck and catch up to this half-blind, inbred, ignorant asshole of a truck driver.

For my convenience, there was a handy 800 number on the back for calling in to let the headquarters know how their drivers were doing.

I phoned in and got an answer by someone sounding like a cross between Fran Drescher and Roseanne.

"I'd like to report a driver on the highway who's driving like an idiot."

"All right. Do you have their log number on the back of the truck?"

"I do. I'm right behind them."

At this point, I hear a shuffling of papers on the phone and Christopher Cross singing "Sailing" in the background.

"All right, go ahead."

I read off the call letters from the back of the rig.

"Was that a G?"

"No. B."

"E?"

"B. B. B. B as in Bastard almost ran me off the road."

"All right."

Another shuffling of papers. I now want to hear Christopher Cross gargling with bleach.

"Well?"

"Is that all sir?"

"Well, what happens now? Do you file a report or something? You need my name or anything?"

"No, I don't need your name. We'll have dispatch talk to the driver."

"And... what? They'll tell him he's driving like an asshole? I think he knows that already."

She sighs. I have a mental image of her chewing gum and painting her nails neon orange.

"Sir, I understand you're upset, but there's no reason to be rude. Sometimes accidents happen on the highway."

"I now loathe you and your company more than the driver."

And she hung up on me.



**Special thanks to Ron Dickie for his virtual comfort this morning.