“Their Brains Were Small and They Died”


I was engaged in the waiting game at the local optometry hut standing patiently just in front of the counter. The busy clerk who was scheduling some other poor sap for the “blow your eye out with a dart gun” test made eye contact and said “be right with you hon.” Why women over a certain age feel the right to call ANYONE hon, I don’t know, but I felt certain that my waiting would soon be over. Enter Mr. Enormous Ego. He invades my personal space at the counter, causing me to naturally edge away from the coveted primary consumer spot I was occupying. Another counter woman, who we shall call “bimbo”, was just returning from escorting another victim to the dart gun test, and Mr. Enormous Ego displayed marvelous athleticism by pivoting around me and demanded to be helped. Despite my objections, Bimbo helped HIM, delivering a circa 1970’s pair of serial killer metal framed glasses and completely ignored the “first come first served” rule. (In addition to his lack of social skills, the fashion police had an APB out on him as well.) Bimbos cannot, apparently, hear the vocal manifestations of the same sex when Alpha Males appear. I believe this was recently the focus of a National Geographic special.
The testosterone bearer was clearly impervious to the death rays that I was shooting into his occipital region of his brain as he walked off with the counter bimbo. Sunken by defeat, I had my tests done, paid the enormous sum of money for small pieces of Saran Wrap to be placed in my eye, and returned to my car, wishing at some point in my life to be able to realize the Kathy Bates mantra “I’m older and have more insurance”. I was older, probably have more insurance, but still lost out to youth.
I started my car, on my way to console myself with a cold fountain cola beverage, when a car coming the wrong direction down the aisle zipped out and ran the opposing stop sign. I generally detest honking since it rarely serves a good purpose. I don’t believe that there has been a recorded instance of “Gosh, I really glad I used my horn.” More often than not, what the horn is saying is “F_ _ _ Off!”. (I personally believe that this popular phrase should have been added to the School House Rock! “ Interjections!” song, as I believe it is the most frequently uttered exclamation.) Despite those personal feeling of anxiety toward public honking, I hit the horn. Not an “excuse me, sir, you appear to have forgotten protocol” type of honk, or a “Mr. Smith’s friendly toot” but rather a “YOU F_ _ _ING BUTTERBALL, I HOPE GOD REACHES DOWN AND YANKS YOU UP BY YOUR BALLS!” type of honk. Then, and only then did I glance over at the driver, who was “saluting” me. There before me screaming silently at me was Mr. Enormous Ego. I was flipping through the Rolodex of vicious retributions to inflict upon him when I took a close look at his car. A “vintage” Honda Civic held together by duct tape, 3 mil plastic, and a few random coat hangers. Through the smoke-filled interior I could see the broken driver’s side window. There in the parking lot of the local Mega Mall, I smiled. More of a vindictive smirk really, but CLOSE to a smile. Mr. Enormous Ego had gotten the bimbo counter help first, gotten out of the parking lot first, but I have a nice job, a nice car, a wonderful, smoke-free life shared by someone who loves me deeply. The driver of the other car clearly has no support system, nor in my opinion did he deserve one. He may have won the battle, but I clearly won the war. May they bury his tobacco filled body next to the Bimbo.