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Third Turd’s a Charm

The very best part of my day today was this morning, when a lady in a lumbering Subaru made a rolling “stop” at the intersection I was pulling into, cutting me off, squelching my right-of-way, and nearly taking my front fender up her station wagon’s pooper.

I was not happy. I called her names. Loudly. And I was stuck behind the bitch, with no way around.

And that was the best part of my day. Not because the rest of the day was terrible. It wasn’t. It was actually quite pleasant — and all because of that Subaru-shuffling scoffstop. And two other random early-morning douchebags.

I’ll explain.

I’ve decided there’s a rule that only three assholes will bother you in any given day. They might be tiny, annoying assholes, like the Subaru lady. They might be huge and raging, and have tremendous consequences. Like if the Subaru lady had hit my car. And it exploded. And she was a grizzly bear.

“But seriously, who are we kidding? There are always assholes. “

(What? Grizzly bears can’t drive Subarus now? This is the twenty-first century, people. Get with it.)

Also, there’s no guarantee that there’ll be any assholes.

But seriously, who are we kidding? There are always assholes.

There were two great things about this jackhole lady this morning. First. she was a minor asshole — but still an asshole. She qualified, by virtue of careening in front of me at twenty miles an hour when it was my turn to go. I don’t make the rules, either of traffic or of being a reckless-driving gaping wank. So, asshole.

And second, I’d already run into — not literally, quite — two other assholes. There was the guy who crossed, sloooooowly, against the walk sign with a dozen cars waiting to clear a green light. And there was the other person — I didn’t get a good look — who cruised across three lanes of traffic without so much as a turn signal blip, the better to make a screeching right turn into a Dunkin Donuts. Hey, when you need a cup of joe, sometimes you NEED a cup of joe, apparently.

The point is, that’s three. Asshole, asshole, asshole, jaaaackpot! I’d hit my quota, all on my morning commute. I wasn’t injured, dead, fired, robbed, punched, chewed out, ostracized, drenched, stomped or even logged onto the internet — and my daily dose of assholes was already out of the way. Three up, and three down. Booyah.

(And yes, I realize there’s no actual rule that you can only be accosted by three assholes a day. But there ought to be. The universe doesn’t have a lot of rules — none that help us very much, anyway — so occasionally I make up a few of my own. I assume eventually the universe will take notice and adopt a policy or two as its own.

Not that the strategy works on my dog, mind you. Or anyone else. Maybe it’ll just take a few more decades to sink in. Or centuries.)

So I rather enjoyed the rest of my day, secure(-ish) in the knowledge that I wasn’t going to deal with any more assholes, all day long. And happily, I didn’t. Some people might say that’s a product of mind over matter, of a sunny outlook producing the very results it led me to expect.

Maybe. But I’m still going to shoot for the same commute time tomorrow. Maybe I’ll run into — almost — that same Subaru lady, and the slow-walker, and the guy or gal with the Dunkin Donuts emergency. If futzing with those yahoos for ten minutes on the way to work is all it takes to be asshole-free, it’s a small price to pay. “An apple a day”, eat your heart out.