As much as I am enjoying my summer of H, I must bring this series to a premature close. There are more pressing subjects that must be addressed. For instance, PEOPLE PISS ME OFF!
I had to make a trek to The Devil's Playground today. Perhaps you are familiar with The Devil's nether regions. His parking areas have large striped crosswalks at both entrances. Plus six stop signs to allow those well-dressed people of The Playground to move freely about the lot.
There I was, one of the best-dressed people in the place, exiting with my two boxes of Tide, the boxes of which have been redesigned once again and contain no plastic handle on top, pushing my cart in which rested my bags thoughtfully packed by one of The Devil's handmaidens to contain all heavy items in a single sack, when it happened.
I looked left before entering the crossing zone. An older model white Chrysler boat of a car was about 100 feet away, by the garden center, approaching the stop sign about 50 feet from me. I dipped my cart wheels into the crossing. Knowing that car had to stop, I took two steps.
THAT FREAKIN' FREAK GUNNED HIS GARGANTUAN VEHICLE AND WAS ON ME FASTER THAN YOU CAN SAY "SWEET GUMMI MARY!"
I did not flinch. I do not suffer pissers gladly, as evidenced by my response to that drunken frat boy at the casino who pulled my literal crank. The time I might or might not have been heard to say, "F*** you! You f***ing m*****f***er!"
I continued to wheel my bounty across the stripes, giving the driver a taste of Mrs. Hillbilly Mom's evil eye. He had the audacity to sneer, "Problem?" over his window elbow, encased in a white button-down shirt with the cuff rolled up to his forearm.
I spat over my shoulder, "Stop sign!" and proceeded on my merry way. He had no response, other than to drive across the people zone, onto the sidewalk-sale concrete area between the doors, and park.
I kid you not. That dude parked his car on the freakin' sidewalk area where the Brinks truck parks, and where the police park when there's a kerfuffle over the greeter checking somebody's receipt.
How stupid of me to assume that such a scofflaw would obey a stop sign. Apparently he is immune to all rules of the road. He was too high-class to be a good ol' boy, and too low-class to be a Walton. The car was not good enough for one of their executives. I'm presuming he was a city dude passing through Hillmomba, or an insurance salesman.
I have a feeling that upon leaving Hillmomba, his plans included driving north to Kathy's Kampground, where he would ask for a site with all the plug-ins, then sleep in his car, smear feces on the walls of the bathroom, unload illegal wood from his trunk, catch a stray dog and take it swimming in the pool, then squeeze some poop out of the dog in Kathy's yard, and drive over her flowers as he left in the middle of the night without paying, making sure not to stop at the stop sign. Because I'm psychic like that.
People piss me off.