Hot Stuff

You never really learn to swear until you learn to drive. ~Author Unknown

Think you’re hot stuff, don’cha?

Zipping around in your souped-up car

Shimmering silver body, slightly elevated rear

Muffler announcing your presence better

Than trumpets proclaiming royalty’s arrival.

Think you’re hot stuff, don’cha?

Baseball cap turned backwards on your head

Heavy metal music pounding its rhythmic beats

With wailing vocals sufficiently intense

To pry the dead right out of their graves.

Think you’re hot stuff, don’cha?

Pulling to within inches of my rear bumper

As if you’re eager to hop in my back seat

And join me for a little spin around town.

Refusing to move over to another lane

Even when I deliberately slow to a crawl.

Think you’re hot stuff, don’cha?

Forcing me to change lanes

Forcing me to lose my temper

While you swoop around me

As if I’m in a car park or some driveway

Woolgathering or taking a siesta.

Think you’re hot stuff, don’cha?

Approaching that traffic light beside me

Then flipping me the universal sign

Of disdain. Of anger. Of disrespect.

Then zooming off in a cloud of exhaust.

I can be as crude as you, fella

But I choose not to

Not because of you

But because of me.

Still think you’re hot stuff, don’cha?

Note: Details changed to protect the guilty.