This past weekend I was pondering another of life's critical questions. Namely, should flipping the bird only be reserved for people in respectable cars?
Saturday afternoon I was making my way north along I-15 on the way to the baptism of my auxiliary niece Sophie. As is usually the case, I was in the fast lane. Somewhere between Farmington and Kaysville, I happened upon a bright yellow Volkswagen Bug. I didn't honk, I didn't shine my brights, and I didn't tailgate either. Yet within seven seconds, my presence was acknowledged by the silhouette of an arm, which shot up from the front seat, emphatically flipping me the bird.
A few seconds later, Miss VW pulled over into the middle lane, and as I passed her, she flipped me off again, this time with such gusto that she obviously imagined her forearm was some kind of military-grade artillery, fully capable of blowing me off the road with the sheer will of her passion.
There have been many occasions in life where I have let other drivers get under my skin. Yet this woman couldn't do it. The situation was too absurd. Too comic. Here she was, packed into this blobbish-looking bright yellow car, trying her best to assert her profane highway authority while driving something that looked like it should have been piloted by Spongebob Squarepants.
So again, I ask: should flipping the bird only be reserved for people in respectable cars?