We were driving along peacefully, me talking a mile a minute about how excited I was to see Jonny Craig and Henry rolling his eyes accordingly, when it happened: Henry merged into the left lane in front of a black Lexus. This action was directly connected with the unleashing of a hornets nest into the Lexus owner’s asshole, which set off a murderous display of horn-honking and violently exaggerated swerving.
Henry was nowhere even close to cutting this guy off, and normally he would have let it go, but on this night he was already agitated. He was sick, going against his will to see five bands he hates, and now some rich bastard is having the nerve to spit testosterone balls at our meager Ford Focus.
So Henry started shouting (really lame and vanilla) insults back at this guy. With the windows down. It was embarrassing for me, because I like to think I’m pretty excelsior at the game of road rage. I felt like Henry took something away from me that night as he shat all over the art of vehicular war fare.
A few seconds later, the Lexus was passing us to the right. I swiveled in my seat to get a better view of the driver—who turned out to be a super old man—just as he raised the velvet curtain on his vulgar highway play.
He stretched out his mouth into a large, flapping “O” and then began pantomiming the most aggressive blow job I have ever seen, AND I HAVE SEEN A LOT OF BLOW JOBS. His eyes bulged out as if he was gagging himself on nothing but the sheer satisfaction of finally being provided with an opportunity to gesticulate something that he hasn’t had since that ‘Nam bullshit was going on.
Imagine there was an outtake from Pee Wee’s Big Adventure where someone gave Large Marge ecstasy and all she wanted to do was fellate fire hydrants.
That’s what it looked like. But you know, if Large Marge was your grandfather. Some little girl is probably sitting in his lap right now, completely unaware that her grandfather gesticulates lewdly to innocent drivers. Go ahead, ask for that pony. But you should know that grandpa wants to lodge his weener in its mouth.
And while this old man’s mouth was practically being pried open with invisible speculum, his hand was pumping with such frenetic force—harder than the broads in the Shake Weight infomercials—like he was trying to paddle a canoe into his mouth. I don’t know how he wasn’t punching himself in the face. I really wanted to see him punch himself in the face.
I couldn’t take my eyes off of him. And I also couldn’t stop pointing and laughing. What else could I do? Feign cunnilingus? He probably would have wrecked.
We watched as he nearly took out two other cars in an attempt to merge into the right lane.
Henry was still swearing and saying things like, “HE’S PROBABLY ONE OF YOUR IDIOT LAWYERS!” (Because I own all of the lawyers at the Law Firm. And they’re obviously idiots for letting that happen.) This was making me laugh even harder, and my face was slick with giddy sweat tears.
“I bet he even took his dentures out for that!” I squealed through my crying giggles.
Henry made some agitated vocal-twist and bristled his moustache.
At a red light, Henry was checking his phone and saw one of my tweets about the debacle. “What’s the ‘universal sign of fellatio’?” he asked.
Are you fucking kidding me? This goddamn forty-five-year-old dumb ass was being serious. I had to act it out for him, which I guess isn’t too surprising because it is Henry after all, and we all know he hasn’t had much action of the adult variety in his life. Like, who would actually ever suggest something like that to him?
“Is that what he was doing? I didn’t even see.” He looked thoughtful for a second. “So, what…that guy wanted to blow me?” he asked, working out this difficult xxx Rubik’s Cube in his head.
Sure, that’s exactly it. He’s probably laying in a hospital bed right now, still thinking of blowing that big flanneled dick in the red Focus.
I predict Henry’s going to start cutting people off in traffic more often now.