It’s kind of like an Amber Alert, only this time, YOU are in danger. And possibly your children.
I have sufficiently calmed down enough to tell this story without dramatics.
I was almost killed by a homicidal lunatic on Friday.
This story starts with me merging onto I-71 at the Dublin-Granville Road exit in Columbus, Ohio.
I drive a Honda Civic. It’s a 4-cylinder, so I was merging, but apparently not fast enough for a man in a golden Jetta. We’ll call him Ash Sole.
So, I guess in order to rub it in (Yes, your car accelerates faster than mine, I get it.) Ash Sole was riding my bumper to the point where his face was perfectly centered in my rear view mirror. We made eye contact several times during this merge, and I gave him my confused “What are you doing?” face. He continued to kiss my car with his until we were passed the guardrails, at which point he sped off into the center lane, laid on his horn and turned around to give me a flip of the finger with full-bodied twist as he passed. Classy.
Being the good Christian that I am, I returned the grand gesture. Only I kept my eyes on the road!
It was at this point that Ash Sole became even angrier at life than he already was, so he darted back across traffic to the right lane until he was directly in front of my car. And he slammed on his breaks. And he came to a complete stop. On the freeway. During rush hour traffic.
It was at this point that I realized that we were dealing with rage to the level of vehicular homicide.
It took a few good break slams before he came to a complete stop. There was screeching and tire marks and everything–there was no way I had time to consider any maneuver other than “try not to slam into car.” Part of me wondered if he was okay and if his vehicle was somehow disabled or something. In the split second this was happening, however, I noticed two blond heads slam repeatedly into the back seat.
This MotherEffer had CHILDREN in the car with him.
Those were about the only words I could muster as I sat in the right lane, waiting for some oncoming semi to rear-end us all. That and the tought, “Should I bail from this car?”
Luckily, I had the wherewithal in those few (hundred? thousand?) seconds to take a gander at his licence plate, and chant it to myself over and over so I would remember to tell Jesus when I arrived in heaven in the next few seconds.
The creepiest thing was how Ash Sole stared at me in his rearview mirror. I have to hand it to him. It was a nice maneuver. I mean, what was I going to do at that point? I didn’t have a concealed carry permit. I was powerless. Who’s the man now, bitch? Touche, Ash Sole. Touche.
So eventually Ash Hole must’ve realized he had some other human to terrorize, so he sped off at 80 miles an hour. I was a little slower to achieve that pace, but I was not killed or rear ended, thanks to the kind folks in I-71 traffic.
But if you see an obese and angry man driving a golden Jetta with the licence plate ER52247, please call the cops. It’s possible that 5 may be an S, but either way. Doode is CRAY-ZEE.
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