To the douchebag in the BMW who cut me off yesterday:
This is the second time in about two months that you’ve decided, when you were sitting at a stopsign perpendicular to the lane I was already sitting in, that you’d just pull out in front of my car without looking, even though I had the right-of-way. I recognized you yesterday because of the suit you were wearing, the shiny silver BMW you were driving, and the look of disgust you shot at me after I called you a douchebag loudly out my window. The first time, you even shot me the finger, as if I’d inconvenienced you somehow. Let’s be honest here: had you waved and asked, I would gladly have let you in. I do it all the time. But the fact that you never looked really irritates me.
I’m going to make an assumption here and guess you’re either a banker or a lawyer, given the neighborhood we both work in; the street you were on only holds parking garages. Somehow I doubt you’re a caseworker at the Goodwill headquarters across the street or a dishwasher at the diner downstairs. No, by your obvious sense of entitlement and inconsiderate manners, I’m guessing you make four times my salary, you bought that car new off the lot, and you’re used to people letting you do whatever you want. While I know for a fact that many BMW drivers are nice, upstanding people who rescue kittens and donate time to charity organizations, you seem to think that hand-sewn leather and a twelve speaker stereo entitle you to drive wherever the fuck you want at any time.
I really hope I never see you again, and that this will be the last time I think of you. Because if you try the same thing when I’m behind the wheel of my Scout, I’m not going to stop when you pull out in front of me without asking.

Date posted: July 14, 2009 | Filed under humor | 2 Comments »

2 Responses to An Open Letter.

  1. Mrs. Scout says:

    What an ass…Yes, I agree. Sick Peer Pressure on him and maybe he’ll learn his lesson.

  2. the idiot says:

    The other nice thing about the Scout is that it actually has a working horn, where the Saturn does not. A simple fact that makes this ex-New Yorker weep during every commute.