The Road Rage Incident You DIDN'T See on YouTube

We have a lot of road rage here in Georgia.The other day, the news said, "Carjacker Surprised by Grandma."  A carjacker had tried to take a woman's SUV and she'd pulled her own pistol out and shot him. The video showed a woman of uncertain age, with 3" fingernails and a 60's beehive, who looked like she'd just climbed off her pole at the Pink Pony. If she was a grandma, she probably achieved that goal at age 22.

This is my own story of road rage, which, thankfully, didn't make the news.

Some of you know that I live in an area called Backwoods County, Georgia. For those of you old enough to know what this means, I've changed the names to protect the guilty. Our county philosophy is "We Ain't Atlanta." Our county motto, in raised letters around our county seal, is "Welcome all y'all, as long as you're white, born in this county, and ain't one of them Muslim terrorists. Or one of them gays, neither."

Yes, it's a big seal.


Anyway, in Backwoods, calling someone a "redneck" is a compliment, we still fly the Confederate flag, every other pickup truck has a gun rack, and the Dixie Chicks are still banned from performing at the Mighty Bulwark Church of Jesus and Fine Barbecue. I don't want to stereotype anyone, but here in Backwoods, the words "Stuffed you in the trunk, EARL!" still makes growed up men take off their camo caps and wipe their sweaty foreheads with their grimy hands.

But I digress.

Yesterday, I'm on my way to work, and sitting about fifth in line at the four-way on Bobo Road. Yes, the street really is called Bobo--here in Backwoods, we name our streets after early county pioneers and family pets. And yes, in the 70's a four-way would have been an intricate sexual encounter, but today, well, you know what it is.

Anyway, I'm at the four-way and I realize I can't find my debit card in my wallet. And you know I don't want to have to call those know-it-alls at Wells Fargo Security and tell them they were right to worry about my debit card. So, now I'm picking through my purse--old receipts and ballpoint pens and lipsticks and stitch markers are flying around the car.

And the guy in the silver Ford pickup behind me honks his horn. Twice.

Really? Really?

I put down my purse, put the car in Park, turn off the ignition, and get out of the car. I walk back to the Ford and I say, "Excuse me, sir. Do you by any chance have my debit card?"

"Uh, no, ma'am."

"Okay, because my debit card's missing and it's making me a little nervous, seeing as how my whole paycheck's in there and I got me some bills to pay. You know what I'm saying?"

"Yes, ma'am."

"So," I say, slowly, drawing it out a little, "if you can't help me with my problem, you're really no good to me. Can you please stop honking so I can get on with getting to work and finding my card?"

"Yes, ma'am."

Then I got back into my car, leisurely, put it into Drive, and went through the four-way, because, by then it was my turn.

He took a left on two wheels, screeching. Probably went home to change his jeans. Bless his heart ....

I mean ... really?

Editor's note: Every so often, one of my readers accuses me of exaggeration, or even making things up. I prefer to think of it as adding dramatic effect to the narrative, or some such term from my college writing class. (Thank you, Dr. Taormina!). As for you, just be glad I didn't throw in a flippin' Deus ex Machina, for god's sake!

Second editor's note: I found the card later, stuffed into my checkbook. Whew! Didn't have to call those WF jerks.