To The Driver of the Red Pickup Truck: (Published August, 2008)

Hi. It’s me. You know, purple running shoes, black shorts, favorite blue tank top?

Well, it’s not blue any more, thanks to you. That strawberry milkshake you threw out of the back of your crappy pickup truck really improved the look.

I mean, I should have known that running on your personal, private highway was in poor taste. But oh, man, how can I ever thank you for showing me, via air-born dairy product, that you disapproved?

I mean, I was ALL the way over on the sidewalk, which I’m sure impeded your view around that half mile straightaway. And plus, I mean, I was all happy looking with my ipod and headband. How dare me, sir, how dare me!

Perhaps I startled you. I mean, it would be hard to concentrate on anything else, what with the sound of your dying engine and all of that Shania Twain blasting out of your cheap speakers.

I’d like to apologize for my rampant disregard for your vendetta against public display of kneecaps. Or maybe it was my headband. I mean, it did perfectly match my once-blue tank top. I can understand how coordination might be something you fear. I would have flung my melted milkshake in terror as well, had I come across something so terrifying as a girl in a blue tank top running down a hill.

I mean, I was merely 40 feet away from the “Beware of Pedestrians” sign. It would be easy to misconstrue that sign as a warning against attack. I do look like the type to suddenly attack the lone motorist. Especially considering that I was singing along to show tunes. That’s a sure sign of an Attack Pedestrian.

From this day on, I promise to do my best to not do anything as silly as avoid your melted rain of strawberry hatred, but rather, to accept it as my punishment for breathing more than my fair share of oxygen. I mean, shallow mouth-breathers like yourself just don’t need as much oxygen, and there I was, breathing heavily because of my run. It was terribly selfish of me, I know.

I should probably explain what a “run” is. You see, some people, like myself, enjoy this thing called “fitness.” I know that this is a new and difficult concept for you, sir, but if you’d just stop crunching on potato chips in between spits of tobacco, you would have noticed that this “fitness” thing isn’t communicable. You can’t catch it, so lobbing your sugary drink was really rather unnecessary.

But also, thank you for that final kicker: the way you partially stopped at the stop sign and oh-so-casually lobbed your half-finished cigarette out of your window. That was great. As if your feelings on outdoor exercise weren’t clear enough, I learned more about you today. We share something in common.

I, too, love litter, polluted air and forest fires! You see? Your sticky pink beverage of lactose-infused hatred was wasted on me.

So, in closing, thank you, sir, for educating me, and reminding me why I am going to England in 34 days.

Because in England, redneck jerks like yourself are shipped off to Australia before they can cause any trouble.

One Reply to “To The Driver of the Red Pickup Truck: (Published August, 2008)”

  1. Sorry to rain on your parade, Catie, but as an englishman resident in the good ole’ U.S. of A. for the last 20 years (New York and, presently, Los Angeles), I’m here to (regretfully) inform you that England has at least as high a percentage of hillbilly, dumbass peckerheads as we do. They look different (more tracksuits), listen to different music and, oh boy, do they ever sound different (especially where you’re going). But other than that…..
    Be careful, watch out, and please, please fill in that absentee ballot. If McCain wins I’m gonna have to seriously think about moving back to blighty, and I really don’t want to do that!

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