Fulfilling Your Stereotype.

I fulfill many of the stereotypes that one might suppose I would.  I like a lot of the things on Stuff White People Like.  I am a liberal who likes NPR and the New York Times.  I'm a woman who likes to waste money on nail polish.  I don't hold this against myself. 

But every once in awhile, someone fulfills that kneejerk image you've built of them SO WELL, that it must be shared, and expressed with glee to the masses.  My dear friends, this is one of those times.

Today on my way back to work from lunch, I pull up at a long stoplight next to a truck.  A big, dirty truck.  It has wheels the size of my cubicle, and a choice bumper sticker.  Fortunately, it was a long enough red light that I had time to get a picture. 

oh, and a close up of the bumper sticker.

Now, we all know what guy we think drives this truck.  In our fantasy it's a guy with spiked hair and an Ed Hardy t-shirt and gold rings on at least 3 fingers.  He hates his beautiful cluless wife, and he's the one who becomes beligerently drunk at your office Christmas Eve party by the time you're slicing the pumpkin pie.

I don't know (and from this angle I actually can't conceive) that he saw me take this picture, but when the light turned green, he sped off, and then tried to pass me rather aggressively.  I decided not to let him cut me off and squeeze his giant truck into the tiny space between me and the car in front of me, and speedily encouraged him to get behind.  Next, he slams on his breaks, swerves his monstrosity in behind me, and I see a flash of white in my rearview mirror. 

what I saw was the sheen of his bedazzled hand pointing and um, rudely gesturing at my vehicle.  with all its might.  Why all his might you ask?  Well, because he was SO SHORT behind his GIANT STEERING WHEEL that it seemed to require his entire stature to get his hand high enough that I might see it in the mammoth windshield of his truck.  He was so short he was actually peering at me through his steering wheel, with only the spikes of his bleach gelled hair appearing above the curve of the grip on his wheel. 

I mildly tap my breaks, bringing my car from 40 in a 40mph speed limit zone, to maybe a 37.  Because I have to see if he's really who I think he is. This is enough to make this (undoubtedly 'roid induced) road rager flash his lights, blast his horn, and approach my bumper within mere inches.  As soon as the lane next to me empties, he tears out again, leaving a giant puff of black smoke and deafening motor revs in his wake, before finally turning into Hogle Zoo. 

Sometimes I wish my husband were as badass as him.