An Open Letter To The Gentleman Who Almost Killed Me
Dearest High Commander Asshole,
You don’t know me yet, and Vishnu willing, we’ll never meet face to face, but I’m the guy you nearly ran over with your car today.
I’ve had many close calls in this bipedal life – having lived in NYC for 5 + years, dodging taxis, dog poop, human poop, bikers, juking angry people, and, well…more taxis, and I’d like to think those 5 years were training for our special moment.
I realize it’s difficult to see a 6’2″ + guy with a bright blue coat walking across the street. Hell, sometimes I’m not sure I really exist, but let’s not get all existential here.
What’s that? I’m sorry, I’ll use smaller words next time.
I do suspect you understand symbols….like the white pixelated stickfigure on the box…that means ‘walk’, and conversely, the red hand means ‘don’t walk’?
You don’t understand that either.
Makes sense as you came whizzing around the corner at 35 mph, not even tapping the brakes as I did my best ‘Mary Lou Retton with a computer bag’ impression to avoid your car.
Speaking of your car – I’ve always imagined (“always” being “since our run in”), if i did get hit by a vehicle, I’d have my legs taken out from under me by something sexy, like a red Ferrari f430 Spider driven by a half-naked Brazilian girl.
But damn you, reality!
Just my luck I’m almost struck down by an early 90’s, shoddily customized, glittery black, neon green accented Honda Civic. Thank L. Ron for the racing pipe off the back, for if I hadn’t heard the distinct sound of someone continuously blowing into a Moose’s ass with a Vuvuzela, I wouldn’t have looked up in time to dodge.
It’s weird how much one remembers the moment right before death. You, driving with one hand, laughing whilst talking on the phone – cheap misshapen aviators, a popped white polo. I’m guessing you were calling Taco Bell to tell them you’d be late for third shift tonight as you got caught up in that hand job from your Aunt Lilly.
Am I wrong in remembering your skin had that oompah-loompah orange tone?
That natural, early-December-in-Ohio hue every Columbusian native has..perhaps it was just the sun reflecting off your car’s massive spoiler – definitely want to keep that thing from taking off.
And that gelled hair; it’s like you’re putting all your effort into looking like Pauly D from Jersey Shore, and yet, perfectly channeling late Liberace.
It pains me this letter has to come to such an abrupt end – certainly not as painful as the end I would have had had you hit me with your ridiculous car. I don’t even know if that last sentence is grammatically correct, but I don’t give a shit, I have a new calling in life – Writer of Open Letters To Inconsiderate Twats, or ‘WOOLTIT’.
Fear the WOOLTIT.