The Light Turned Green

 

THE LIGHT TURNED GREEN

 

I was sitting in my car when the light turned green, my favorite color.  Before I could move, the driver behind me blasted her horn.  I saw her give me the finger and say the f word in my rear view mirror, where objects are closer than they appear.  Usually I’m quite a patient man, but she picked the wrong day to mess with me.  I’d just been to the dentist and the DMV.

I reached into the glove box, grabbed my gun, jumped out of the car, spun around to face her, and fired three shots.  Her windshield shattered in a thousand pieces.  It felt good.

She opened her trunk, pulled out a shotgun and shot my gas tank.  My car exploded, flew up in the air, and burst into flames.  I had no idea a car could do such a thing, but I did see it in a movie once.  Bruce Willis played a dirty drunk of a cop whose marriage was falling apart.  His car was blown to pieces by terrorists who then kidnapped his wife.  He rescued her, she loved him again, and their marriage was saved.  I think that sort of thing would save any marriage. 

But back to my story.  There we stood in the street with smoke in the air and broken glass at our feet.  We glared at each other like Clint Eastwood and Lee Van Cleef in The Good, The Bad, And The Ugly.  Great movie, but let’s get back to my story. 

I looked at her and she at me.  She said “Son?”  I said “Mom?”  I ran to her and hugged her tight, but I held onto my gun, just in case.

So let this be a lesson all you road ragers out there, with your Dwayne Johnson pecs and your Vin Diesel hair:  If you have to shoot your mother, don’t shoot her dead.  Shoot her in the leg, not in the head.  Because when Thanksgiving rolls around, you’re going to want her in the kitchen making turkey dinner, hopping around on that one good leg.