Oh, hey there. Yeah, you, in the silver Jeep Cherokee. You must remember me: I was one half of a couple in the canyons over the weekend, out on a training run in the afternoon rain. The road on which we ran has a fairly wide shoulder, and we ran against traffic like we're supposed to.
I'm puzzled as to why you were compelled to blast us with your horn as you approached us. (Nice touch with the custom horn, by the way. It sounded like a dying walrus, if "Dying Walrus" was a ringtone.) Then, we both saw you raise your middle finger. Then you were gone.
How brave you must have felt behind the wheel of a two-ton tank of steel passing at sixty miles per hour.
I suppose you posted something about it on Facebook later on, using horribly incorrect grammar and sharing virtual high fives with all your mouth-breathing dude-bros. I think I know your type. You often wake up on the wrong side of your folks' pull-out couch with a video game hangover and Frito crumbs stuck in your chest hair, you think Dane Cook is funny, and...you're pissed. You're pissed it costs almost a hundred bucks to fill the fuel tank on your macho-mobile, and you're pissed that your knuckles drag on the ground. And the other day, you were pissed that two people on foot dared to share your road.
Congratulations. You're a loser.
Or, in the words of Dr. Seuss: "You're a three-decker sauerkraut and toadstool sandwich with arsenic sauce."