Open letter to that bitch in the SUV

Yeah, you driving that white Ford Excursion (Expedition? Land monster.) with the fraternal order of police sticker on the back. Fuck you.

As you can probably tell from that outstanding diagram I made above, said whore (I don't know if she's actually a whore -- in the sex for money sense -- but she definitely sells herself in some unscrupulous way) tried to pull the old "zoom up the side then merge in at the last minute" move.

In some cases this is acceptable, or at least tolerable. For example on the highway, when the number of lanes decrease. Reasonable.

But no, this was in Main Street at Exton, a glorified strip mall that some wise ass engineer decided build with "a small town feel." He failed. But anyway, there was a clear line of cars waiting to make a right turn merge onto Route-a-hundred. You bravely decided that this line of about 7-10 cars was far too long and proceded to cut.

Imagine me being snapped out of my stoner rock reverie when you violently swerved toward my little blue Saturn. Not sure if you just didn't see me, or figured I could reverse real quick and smash the guy behind me. Actually you probably figured the magic bubble that surrounds your SUV would push my car safely out of your way.

Either way, I can surmise your surprise when I stuck up for my personal driving space by giving you a little beep. Don't worry about not flipping the bird at this egregious act, because your precious little mouthbreather named Sarin was in the backseat.

You got your point across after we got out onto route 100 by flooring past us poor small car driving plebes on your way to back your McMansion.

No worries there either, we all know how hubby would be disappointed if you don't make sure your army of Mexicans gets the laundry done/grass cut/dinner made before he gets home.

Also, how was Atlanta Bread Company?