I was once driving in LA, Beverly Hills to be exact, when I came to a red light. I was in the inside lane, and up ahead, in the next block, my lane ended, so I would have to merge or be stuck high and dry. You know how it is. I glanced over, and to my relief, I saw a Beverly Hills matron. You know, blonde hair perfectly styled without a strand out of place, just the right amount of make-up and lipstick. A pushover. I waited confidently for the light to change, and when it did, I took off like a bat out of hell. To my shock and surprise, Mrs. Beverly Hills came roaring out of the block like A. J. Foyt, determined not to let me in. I tried to outgun her but she would have none of it, and at the last second, I gave her the finger to wish her well. Again, to my shock and surprise, she raised, what I assumed to be, a well-manicured ring finger, and went sailing on her way. She outballed me. I had to slow down, and stop. I was pissed for a second, and then I had to laugh. What I assumed to be a pushover was just as bullheaded and childish as I was. Only she didn’t look the part. I did, and I had egg on my face.
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