OK, let’s get down to business. Back in the 80s, I’ve seen my share of rich fuckers in their Luxury sedans, wearing gold chains and diamond-studded watches. I was a high school kid then and tortured myself with contempt when a fat bastard rolls up in his Jag with his Presidential Rolex hanging out the window and a cigar erecting like a fat little penis between his stubby, greasy fingers.
I suppose I’m that bastard now, although not so much fat but rather, because of the gym, decently muscular (time has changed, but the bastard part hasn’t). But muscles are a sham, neither here nor there. Anyway, I imagine I’m now the source of contempt, despise, resentment — whatever — for others when I roll up to the stop lights in my brand new Lamborghini. To be safe, I keep my arms and feet inside the car, and I try not to car-window shop while in traffic, for even a random glance can be interpreted as a judgmental stare.
Recently I almost got clocked while sitting in the Porsche in traffic and was (innocently) staring at a billboard. The knuckle head in the pimped out Civic next to me thought I was staring at him and so he literally got out of his car and got into my face while I’m strapped down in the belly of the car. I was in no position for self-defense, so I thought about taking the offensive action of pulling his head in through the window and delivering a headlock that would have knocked him out cold in less than 7 seconds. But instead, I defused the situation by asking him if he could blame a man for staring at the bikini-clad girl on a Bud Light billboard. (Until this day part of me wanted to give that punk an involuntary afternoon nap.)
Thereafter I thought about carrying a hand gun in the glove box, but California doesn’t look too favorably upon those who blow the heads off of thugs in Honda Civics. That would make me a thug in a black Lamborghini.
