Los Angeles

Many people in LA fit the laid-back Southern California image. Others need to increase their Prozac dosage. Like the guy I accidentally cut off on the freeway once. He was going around 220 M.P.H. when my safe lane change apparently impeded his forward progress. He slowed to within inches of my rear bumper, showing his displeasure by honking wildly and flashing his lights. Ok, ok. I decided to move over to let his highness pass.

Unfortunately, this was at the same time he decided to go around me. So now he thinks I am playing with him and he is really mad. He is so close to me now he’s sitting in the passenger seat. He swings around to the right side and pulls up next to me, weaving back and forth, missing hitting my car by millimeters.

Finally, I said to myself- that’s enough for me! Time to go. I shot past him. He came after me. I exited the freeway and watched him follow me. I headed south along the Pacific Coast Highway. At the first stop light he came up right behind me. All four doors opened. There is more than one guy. There are four.

Oddly, they just stood there yelling at me. I thought they were coming over to club me. The light turned green and I took off. They jumped back in came after me. I weaved in and out of traffic. “Road King” followed as close as he could. I kept looking over my shoulder to see if he was still there. I felt like Maverick in Top Gun, “I’ve got a bogie at seven o’clock!”

I came to a stop at the next light. They pulled up behind me again. The doors opened – they got out again. But again they stood there.

Then I heard it. Boom! Boom! Boom! Boom!

They were pelting my car with beer bottles. But, most of the bottles hit my convertible roof and bounced like kids in the bounce house at McDonald’s. I took off when the light changed. They didn’t get back in the car in time. I shot down a side street. See ya.

It never rains in Southern California. Except beer bottles.