Tuesday, November 20, 2007


"That's a cop, stupid."

I thought I'd get one good evening ride in tonight before the rain and snow in this week's forecast arrives, so at about 6:30 or so, I headed out on the ZX-7R for wherever.

The ride itself was a good one. I rode Midland's north side, then took a jaunt up through Gardendale, went around Odessa once, then took Highway 191 east back toward Midland.

When I got into town, I stopped for fuel at Midland Drive and Andrews Highway. As I pulled out of the gas station and headed for the Godfrey intersection, I saw the unmistakable front profile of a late model Mustang several blocks behind, suddenly coming up fast in the lane beside me -- engine revving to the moon.

"Puh-leeez," I thought. "This should be interesting."

As we stopped at the red light, an MPD patrol cruiser pulled up too, facing us head-on from the other direction -- as plain as day under the streetlights.

"That's that," I thought. "This punk will surely stand down."

So there we were, just the three of us -- me, Johnny Law, and the pimply-faced geek with the small-block V8. All would be calm and civil.

Or so I thought.

To my surprise, Mustang DorkĀ® started revving his engine like John Force at Pomona, trying like mad to get my attention. Naturally I ignored him, like I always do in these all-to-frequent scenarios, but he persisted. Finally, I looked over at him and he put his window down, hands making a what's-the-deal gesture and giving me the nose-up nod.

"That's a cop, stupid," I barked while raising my faceshield. "Chill out!"

He looked over toward the patrol cruiser just as the light turned green. I immediately took off at a brisk pace, attempting to send the message that the conversation was over. Not only that, but I went up a block and got into the Left Turn Lane to make sure we didn't meet again at the next red light. But, nooooooo. Mustand DorkĀ® slithered in behind me, determined to have either a race or a conversation, neither of which I was interested in.

A soon as I made the turn, I hit the hyperdrive button and stayed in the cooking oil until the next light. At long last, he got the point and turned off, presumably back in the direction from whence he came. Me, I went for a coffee.

If I had a knickel for every time some teenage knucklehead in a Mustang, Camaro, or tuner car attempted this exact same stunt, I'd own one of the space shuttles by now. Listen up, kiddies: If you can't run 10 seconds or less in the quarter-mile, don't bother picking on me. It's not my job to entertain you, nor are the vast majority of you worthy of even lining up along side the likes of me. Don't be silly. Stop it. Honestly.

So what's the moral of this story, you ask?

I hate people.

Well, most of them, anyway. Eric Clapton, as an example, wouldn't fall into that category. But backward baseball cap-wearing, pepperoni-faced teen douchebags in lame Mustangs do.

Oh, and if they have a "No Fear" or "Ain't Skeered" decal on the window -- Ooooh, then I double hate them.



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