We all suffer from it from time to time. That build up of stress put upon us by other motorists. Some of us are quick on the horn, some even quicker on flicking the bird. I however am someone who lets it go.
Lately, I have found my road rage stewing and building up inside me to the point where I let it out, whether I like it or not. The first time this happened to me was over Christmas (a stressful enough time as is) when I was at, you guessed it, a shopping centre car park. After navigating around the cars protruding out of everywhere, narrowly avoiding the out of control trollies and suffering behind the crawl of cars all hoping for a magical empty car spot to open up I was ready to snap. And snap I did.
I was approaching a pedestrian crossing. No one was on it or about to be on it but up ahead, past the crossing, an obese woman emerged from between the cars lumbering towards the road. She saw me coming but she had no intentions of stopping even though if she continued she’d be half way across the road. Nor did she even consider taking the final 12 steps to get to the crossing where she can cross safely and where I’d have gladly stopped and smiled as she crossed. We had ourselves a good old fashioned game of chicken instead.She stepped out meters past the crossing under the assumption I’d stop… I didn’t. As I passed her she yelled “hey, I’m walking here!” to which I replied immediately with a “Fuck you!” … I had shocked even myself. Sure, this lazy bitch deserved it but it was the first emergence of what I like to call my dark passenger… seat…
So rather let my rage build up I thought i would release it in the form of blog post with my Top 5 Streets of Rage Inducing Acts
1. People who stand and converse at the crossing.
Following on from my crossing rage, this is in the same league as people who talk at the top of an escalator (there is a special corner of hell for those people). It is not the place for it! If you’re planning on crossing the road, then cross. If not, move away from it so those of us in the cars know the coast is clear. I realise this is a minor one but I have to drive through a lot of crossings on my drive to work, I always look out for pedestrians and love getting a thankful wave for “letting” someone pass safely, however it still gets to me.
2. People who indicate around a bend that is not a corner or intersection.
My home is near such a bend and it makes me feel dumb for the person every time I witness someone doing it. If there is only one way to go and that’s to follow the road around a bend, then I know where you’re going, no need to indicate, buddy. It just makes me feel sorry for you. I guess I include this on the list because sometimes I too guilty of this and when I do I feel that much stupider… so I guess the rage is on me.
3. People who don’t indicate off roundabouts.
You know which exit you’re taking, I don’t! Again, seems minor but infuriates me! How hard is it to put in the effort to indicate. Less effort than it takes to smother kittens or whatever other activities you do in your own time you evil bastard!
4. People who don’t slow down at give ways.
There are two kinds of people in this world. Those who approach a Give Way sign assuming you have to stop and those who assume they’re not. I fall into the former category, i approach a give way sign assuming a car may be going past and that I have to, as the sign says, give way. Thus the sign. It feels like there are way more people out there who treat give way signs as a polite suggestion and assume that the can drive on any road and no one else will be coming… and then when they’re forced to brake sharply and let you go past they act as if you’ve caused them some grave indignation, like you took a leak on their mum (she was totally into it).
5. People who get angry that you’re driving the speed limit and precede to carry out a pantomime in your rear view mirror about how they can’t believe it.
They raise their hands. Smack down on the wheel. Mouth visibly as if they are yelling “why’re you driving so slow, don’t you know I am in hurry!?” One. If you’re late it is not my fault, you’re likely a selfish person who didn’t leave adequate time to do what you need to. People like me, who turn up 30 minutes early to things and sit in the car and play Bejewelled till it is a reasonable time to turn up hate you. Two. No matter how much of a show you put on, i won’t speed for you, if anything, i will go even slower. Because what happens? You get past me to do the whole thing again to the car in front of me all to arrive a few minutes earlier?
This is by far my biggest beef. Every morning it seems like some upitty prick is itching to drive to work as though it was Need For Speed. And before you ask, yes I have considered it might be me but I only drive the speed limit so sorry if 50km/h is too slow for you when you need to get to your weekly circle jerk class.
The other day on a lovely Sunday morning drive i had a douche in a giant 4WD (not saying all 4WD drivers are douches this one just happened to be) driving dangerously close to me, tailgating me for ages. He was putting on the rear view dance of “Why so slow?” banging on his wheel and blowing up. I may or may not have seen steam come from his ears. This all took place on the 50km/h suburban streets but this guys was acting as if he was being inconvenienced to no end. There aren’t many places you need to be in such a rush for on a Sunday morning, was he a priest late for church? Probably not with some of the choice 4-letter words he was mouthing at me.
He eventually got so annoyed he over took me on a backstreet. A 50km/h street with kids playing out the front of their houses, people walking dogs and other cars oncoming. He took off at least 90km/h leaving a thick smoke trail behind him. Funny thing was, the moron had a sticker on his car for his website. I looked it up and HAD to write this Ken an email to let him know how I felt. It went:
If you fucking overtake on the backstreets of *suburb* again just because someone happens to be going the speed limit I will take a dump on the hood of your car. I hope you don’t accidentally run over your own dog because you and your tiny penis are in such a hurry to go fuck your bored wife , you pimple on the arse of society dick-wad.^
PS your photos are fucking horrible and your website looks as though it were shat out by a lactose intolerant monkey
Ping Pong (The white Barina)
I had to tidy it up a bit to put up here, as you can tell, i was angry, but you get the idea. The point is, this post and the email helped me release some of my built up rage so I encourage you to leave a comment below as if you were writing to your worst driver pet hate.
^ Upon consulting with my friend this is actually a revised and tidied up version of the email… the real one was much worse.
In the video rental system, the people are divided into two separate yet equally important groups: the people who hire the movies and the customer service representatives who tolerate them. These are their stories.
1999 was a great year. The Sopranos premiered on HBO. The millennium bug was a thing. The last episode of Hey Hey It’s Saturday aired… And DVD’s were slowly making their way into video shops across the country.
The first two DVD movies we got at my particular video store were the original Matrix and the (at the time hilarious) Austin Powers – Spy Who Shagged Me. Of course, we only got three DVD copies of each title to the 50+ VHS* copies, but it was a start.
I can remember working one night when a lady came in upset that she’d not been able to watch the Matrix. I played the part of the sympathetic video store clerk and tried to figure out why.
Her: Excuse me, I’m returning this DVD of the Matrix but I wasn’t able to watch it. I’m fuming, it was meant to be for a kids sleep over but we couldn’t watch it so I’d like a refund.
Me: Oh, I am sorry to hear that. What was the issue? Was the disk scratched?
Me: Was it jumping & skipping?
Her: Wouldn’t know, couldn’t play it.
Me: So it just wouldn’t load at all?
Her: Nah, no one said I had to have a DVD player to play it, did they.
Me: … Um … You don’t own a DVD player?
Her: S’what I said.
Me: Yet you hired a DVD?
Her: Yeah… so?
Me: … Do you have a VHS?
Her: You being a smart-arse? Of course I have a VHS player.
It was about then I realised most people are idiots, and I’ve never looked back.
We all know the rest of the story, quite quickly DVD over took the VHS as the dominant home entertainment medium and within my 7 year stint at the video shop I saw the VHS become extinct. I had left before Bluray was introduced but I like to think that that same woman went through the same ordeal all over again only this time with a bluray disk… if her VHS wouldn’t play a DVD why would she think it would it play a Bluray?
*Sorry, to those younger readers, VHS were what movies came on before DVD. Think of a big cassette**.
**Sorry, cassettes were what music was played on before CD’s. They had like a ribbon of film*** inside.
***Film is like the stuff that that cameras used to take photographs on before they went digital.
Imagine this: You have a craving, an intense desire for a particular food you love. You know exactly what it is you want but you know you can never have it again. That is what you’ve done to me, Red Rock Deli. Let me explain.
Each and every week when I would be doing my groceries I would excitedly grab one, if not two, bags of your vintage cheddar and red onion (VC&RO) crisps. Then, one week not too long ago, my grocery store didn’t have any on the shelf, just an empty space where they used to be. Distraught, I put my groceries in my car and bravely went back into the shopping centre to go to the other grocery store only to discover that they too were out. I’m not going to lie, I was scared. I didn’t let myself believe what I already dreaded… what I already knew…
Over the next couple of weeks I would optimistically round the corner into the potato crisps aisle with my trolley to again be hit with a pang of disappointment as there were still no VC&RO in stock. By the third week there was no longer even had a space reserved for them on the shelf. I had to concede to what I’d feared weeks earlier… that you’d stopped making my favourite flavour crisp of all time…
RIP Vintage Cheddar & Red Onion… sad face
I tried other Red Rock flavours again, my old favourite sour cream and sweet chilli just didn’t do it for me any more, and while the grilled chorizo flavour was nice enough it just wasn’t the same… they only dulled the pain of no longer having VC&RO on the shelves any more.
You’d reduced me to something akin to a crack addict, asking complete strangers if they’d seen them any where, pleading with family members the country over to keep an eye out for them. “I’m good for them” I’d exclaim to anyone who had thought they’d seen them somewhere but all I found were ghosts, empty shelf sections, people vaguely remembering seeing them at random places. My lowest point was phoning around all the service stations just to see if they had any hidden away out back… it was dark times…
Then, on a birthday trip to Sydney, the heavens opened up and heard my prays and gave me the best present ever! I was in a small convenience store down near Circular Quay picking up a few things when my eyes caught a glimpse of something… that familiar brownish purple packaging that is unmistakeably VC&RO crisps! I dropped my stuff and ran over. Few if any things make me cry any more, Optimus Prime dying in the original animated Transformers movie and not much else, but having found some of these crisps, my most sort after treasure, I did just that. I wept. I quickly bundled the remaining 8 bags into my arms and queued up to buy them. People laughed at me. The service attendant smirked. Asian tourists took photos, but I didn’t care, I had 8 packs of pure gold as far as I was concerned.
But I knew my windfall would be short lived if I wasn’t careful, I had to ration them as best I could. Sharing wasn’t an option so social events were out. I chose instead to reserve them for special television show occasions, the Game of Thrones season finale for example… with the use by date fast approaching I managed to eat 7 bags over about 4 weeks. I was happy. With only one bag remaining I knew I’d need to savour it…
Then I got cocky. If this small convenience store still had some who’s to say somewhere else wouldn’t? I had hope again. I’d already conducted a pretty thoroughly search online to no avail but this time i went further into the Google search results than anyone has every gone. Page 5, page 6… every result examined… page 10, page 11 and further! Then, I found an online shop that sold them by the carton! I promptly ordered 2 cartons (paying well above $6 a packet) but I didn’t care about the cost, soon I would have more in my possession.
To celebrate, i bought a nice bottle of expensive red wine and sat down with what was once my last packet. I ate the whole bag in one sitting and it was delicious. I was foolish not to wait until my order had arrived, what if withdrawal kicked in, or worse? What if they never arrived?
Next, tragedy struck.When my order hadn’t been delivered in the 2-3 day shipping window I became panicked. I sent off an email enquiring if my shipment had been hijacked by some crisp pirates who too saw the crisps as gold coins much like myself… no reply. The withdrawal shakes had kicked in. 2 agonising days later, a whole week from my initial order, a reply finally came. The email I’d been dreading. It informed me that they’d tried to order the crisps themselves only to find from the supplier that they’d been discontinued… the reality had set in, I had confirmation i would never again taste the crisp perfection that is Vintage Cheddar & Red Onion again.
So I write to you know, not as an enquiry, not as a request but as a plea, begging, please, is there any way, in the world, I am able to get even one more packet of the crisp perfection that is vintage cheddar and red onion, please… I am one step away from finding a dying child and stealing his make-a-wish… please.
On his knees,
PS If you doubt in any way my story find attached photos of the crisps I bought in bulk as well as links to the 4 flavours of crisps I entered in the Smith “Do us a Flavour” competition…
As men, we on occasion find ourselves standing, sharing a urinal with other guys. It is a weird phenomena, doing what is generally a private function so openly and on mass and as such there are certain unspoken rules applied to ensure it all occurs in accordance with societies conventions. Rules include:
No peeking. Your head must not turn more than 45 degrees either direction and must never look down further than approximately 30 degrees. Of course, there is also eye movement and peripheral vision to consider which is why I abide by the eyes front & center rule, you can’t go wrong there.
Keep a controlled shake. You want to avoid getting a stray drop on a fellow toilet goer with your enthusiastic shaking of the penis. The shaking gesture is also a subtle courtesy to indicate to others that you’re finishing up your time at the urinal.
Mind the gap. It is good manners, when possible, to leave a minimum of one empty urinal between you and other people already using them. Often it is unavoidable to have to slip into the gap left by someone else abiding the rules but just so long as you stick to the no peeking rule outlined above you should be fine. When using a trough however there is more discretion in the distance of spacing between yourself and others. My rule of thumb is, if the gap is so narrow I am touching the people either side of me, I won’t try use the space.
Polite conversation only. Preferably sport related, weather perhaps or just general small talk, no big questions or comments, nothing that can lead into an awkward linger. The last thing you want is to finish your business (with a controlled shake) only to have to hang around a stale men’s room while you finish your discussion on the state of affairs in Libya.
Control your pressure. You push too hard, particularly at a trough, and there can be a larger radius of spray. Think a fire hose sprayed at a wall up close. Splash back. This rule is particularly enforced at a venue where one might be attending the urinal in thongs.
And finally, the wee-fart. Often when you find yourself relaxed, as you do when releasing a steady relieving stream of wee, your whole body plays along which can often result in a wee-fart, the usually deliberate but often accidental fart that comes when weeing. It is often a squeak or a brief pop, never much more than that. Like clearing your throat… only, it’s your bum.
When a wee-fart occurs it is to remain unacknowledged. No one can mention it ever existed unless the person who did it chooses to comment on it, in which case it is okay to laugh or even remark on it.
On my recent trip to the states there were several occasions where I was in the position of using a urinal in the proximity to a bathroom attendant, one of those guys who hands you a towel and offers you aftershave. The first time I was put off and stifled my wee-fart (no easy task) but by my third trip in I just had to let it out. I chose to leave it unspoken rather than try make light of it, i figure it happens enough he’s heard all the classics: “Who stepped on a duck?” and what have you. On that time I tipped $3 instead of the standard $1, i figure there has to be some sort of tax on it.
Anxiety: Having to use an airport toilet close to your flight’s boarding time. There are usually only 2 stalls per men’s room and people get nervous before flights and nervous poo’s are notoriously nasty.
Fear: When the lock doesn’t work and you have to hold the door shut as people continuously try barge their way in as if their lives depend on it, like you’re shutting the door on a bomb shelter as A-Bomb’s are raining down.
Disgust: When the guy in the stall next to you sounds like he is birthing a small horse. You move your feet over a bit in fear of getting some splash back (or worse) on your shoes.
Indignity: When you see the man emerge from his stall post poop, sweaty, exhausted and looking as if he is escaping from an axe murderer, looking over his shoulder to make sure it isn’t following him as he limps away.
Disgrace: When you notice the same man in line for your flight as you begin to board. He averts his eyes, not wanting to be seen for the bowel shame be bought about on his toilet bowl.
Resignation: When the man lumbers up the aisle of the plane, checking his ticket again and again, hoping it will change but knowing destiny has put him next to the only witness to his stinky crime scene.
Acceptance: When you are in fact the noisy pooper!