On Saturday night, when Chris and I were driving home from my parents' house, I was proceeding down Diamond St. at a safe speed. Ahead of me, I saw two PB Girls® walking across the middle of the street, totally not paying attention. The way their logic works, they are Pretty, so they don't have to. It's the same logic that means my neighbors are welcome to come home at 3am, screeching like Yoko Ono on fire.
Under normal circumstances, I'd slow down well in advance of anyone crossing the street in this jaywalker-friendly town. But I figured these girls needed a little jumpstart in the common sense department.
I'd like to reiterate, for the parents in the audience, that I was going a safe speed and at no time endangered any lives, stupid or otherwise. I just decided that I wasn't going to slow down gradually.
Anyway, once I was about 50 feet away from them, they both looked up and did the Dance of Girly Terror. Jazz hands, stomping feet, and all. Their screams were so high-pitched that dogs probably started barking somewhere. By this time I had come to a full stop, somewhat so they could get out of the way, mostly because Chris and I were sobbing with laughter.
Part II: As I drove past them, I got pelted with the epithet of "Fucking bitch!" and a half-hearted, open palmed slap on the roof of my car (so as to not damage her nails). I lived off the glory of that moment for the rest of the night.
No comments:
Post a Comment