I’m Sorry You Think I’m Satan

Originally published May 2005

To the guy who spit on my car while I was driving it:

To answer your question: No I do not want to do unspeakable things (four letters, rhymes with duck) with the devil. And thank you for your kind offer to pull over and discuss the matter further, but at the time it was far more important for me to get your snowball-sized loogie off my windshield.

Now that I’ve had time to reflect on our enchanting rendezvous at 45 mph there are a few things I’d like to say.

It is not my fault the South Carolina Department of Motor Vehicles gave me a license plate that starts with 666.

It is your fault that you’re a complete nutbag.

I get that you’re a good, God-fearing southern boy (the “stars-and-bars” sticker gave you away), but I’m afraid you’ve taken it to a very bad place. And I think it would behoove you to get your head out of your ass sooner rather than later, or I fear you may meet your Maker in an untimely and probably very painful fashion. And most certainly at the hands of someone not nearly as tolerant as I.

But I have to say (and I’m ashamed to admit this because I pride myself on being a good listener) that you caught me off guard and in my utterly stunned and totally baffled state I was unable to catch all the expletives being hurled in my direction.

But I did catch a couple of them. You’re a man of few words, and I daresay not one of them could be said on TV.

You’re not the first person, and certainly not the first man, to call me that name (5 letters, rhymes with ditch). But it generally takes about 20 minutes of conversation for people to come to that conclusion. I think you jumped the gun in your assessment of my character.

And in my 30-plus years on this planet I have had occasion to spit, but I bow to your prowess. There is no way I could ever compete with your mind-blowing, freak-show-worthy spitting capabilities. I’m not afraid to tell you that I think there are camels in this world who could learn a thing or two from you.

And your aim? Impeccable. Really, I mean it. A laser-guided missile could not have hit its target more squarely. I don’t know what it is you do for a living, but if it doesn’t have anything to do with distance and trajectory, then I think you’ve missed your calling.

I also admire your tenacity. You followed me for miles. Not many men have that kind of staying power. Although you are in your twenties, which might explain it. And it may not be my place to say this, but you might consider a good exercise plan (or maybe just a healthy dose of mood stabilizers?) as I detected what seemed to be a substantial amount of pent-up energy.

No, I’m not psychic. It was all that vigorous and wildly animated gesturing you were doing. But I am so, so terribly sorry that you only have two fingers. I can’t begin to imagine what happened to the other eight, but you must have a very difficult time opening jars and putting on socks. I wonder if Hallmark makes a card for that?

I was deeply saddened when you pulled around me and then turned. Adrenaline is such a funny thing. Or was that love I was feeling? Nope, it was definitely my sympathetic nervous system. Sorry, those were some big words. You may know it as “fight or flight.”

I have to tell you, my darling nutbag, your brand of lunacy is a refreshing change, indeed. Finally! A man who isn’t afraid to express his feelings for me! My life’s recently fallen into an unnerving state of normalcy and I could really use a certifiable head case to shake things up from time to time (you jump out of my bushes, I blind you with pepper spray—oh, the memories we’ll have!). It’s been awhile since I had a lunatic to call my own. As mentally deficient as the last one was, he still had a few marbles rattling around that vacuous skull of his. I’m looking for a real wacko this time around. And I think you might be just the guy for the job.

I’ll be in touch. I have your license plate number. Oh, and so do the police.