So this afternoon, I’m heading down Rainier Ave into Renton. Traffic is awful, all backed up because of Seafair, and of course, there’s the idiot who decides that he needs to head down the center turn lane and bypass the traffic. The rest of us mere mortals just inch along.
Finally, I see the erring minivan pull over into a parking lot. I briefly indulge that fantasy that we all of have, you know, the one where we pull over and let the person have it, thus changing their ways forever. I float in a reverie of changing drivers around the world–traffic bypassers, humvees squeezed in compact parking spots … okay, let’s be honest, I really want to take out my Seafair anger on someone. And maybe he has his pregnant, about-to-deliver wife in the car. Or some other emergency.
And of course, I do nothing. But, as I am stuck in a long line of slow-moving cars, I get a good glimpse of the person. He’s standing in front of the open hood, which is unfurling great plumes of smoke. Oh, I think. It was an emergency.
And then I see he’s not wearing pants.
And then I see that his pants are around his ankles.
And then I see that he’s fumbling with his tightie whities.
And then …
And then …
And then, he pees on the engine.