Road rage for 100, Alex

So there I was, driving up Main Street, minding my own business and toting pizza home from our favorite 'za joint.

Behind me, an asshole.*

Main Street is a four-lane road through downtown O'Fallon, so there are plenty of opportunities to pass. At the time I was driving 40 miles per hour (speed limit is 30) and was keeping pace with other cars around me.

The guy behind me was apparently in a hurry to get somewhere, so he figured driving about a foot from my rear bumper would help him reach his destination in a timely manner. Combined with swerving back and forth, backing off and then gunning his engine to get to within inches of my bumper, he was carefully sculpting his star on the Jagoff Walk of Fame.

Of course this called for The Tapping of the Brakes. "Back off, Mario."

This apparently turned out to be the straw that broke the azzhole's back.

Gestures flew, he started beating his dashboard and summoning me to pull over and fight him. I ignored his loving gestures and got into the left turn lane. He pulled in behind me and started getting out of his car. 'Scuse me?? Fortunately, the light turned green and we were off.

At that point I called 911.

Once I made the left turn I pulled over to the shoulder to let him pass so I could get his plate info. Apparently he took it that I wanted to fight and pulled over behind me. I continued to drive 10 mph along the shoulder until I reached my subdivision.

The dispatcher had all kinds of advice for me: Don't get out of the car. Lock the doors. Keep moving if possible. What is he wearing? What make/model/color car is he driving? How the hell am I supposed to know? He's too close to see anything.

Meanwhile I turned into my subdivision and avoided my house. All I needed was Mr. Jagoff to know where I live. He decided to pull alongside me, roll the window down and shout obscenities at me. "Wanna fight me asshole? C'mon, let's settle this now!"

"Dude, settle what? You just need to get off my fucking bumper." For some reason, my words made him get out of his car and give chase on foot. I assure you I can drive faster than he can run.

Not one to give up, he got back in his car and chased me down the road again. I let him pass so I could give his plate info to the dispatcher. He decided to pull in front of me and park sideways to block the road. Again he got out and started to chase me on foot. (this time in reverse - what a fuckin' idiot!)

I circled the block and lost sight of him. Apparently he's a pussy and a quitter because he disappeared.

Forty-five seconds later the officer showed up and took my statement. A few minutes after I got home, the cop came to the door and told me they ran the plates and knew where he lived, and how would I like to proceed? I could charge him with disturbing the peace and attempted assault.

"Neh. Just go to his house and make him shit his pants. If he has an issue with any of it, come back and I will press charges. Tell him I said he's a cocky punk who needs to learn how to drive."

"One of my favorite things to do." With that he was off to pay a visit to Mr. Douche.

Would you have filed charges or let him skate?


*I guess technically we all have an asshole behind us.

Chicken Freakin' See (repost just for fun)

One of my real head-scratcher type days... a Dave's Window "greatest hit":

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I was working in my garage one day when a guy got out of his car and walked up the driveway. "Are you Dave Morris?"

"Yeah, can I help you?"

"Social security number XXX-YY-ZZZZ?" At this point, I'm wondering who's dead. I asked who he was. He pulled out his card. "Officer Ben Dover (real name) (not really, I'm protecting his anonymity) (actually that's not true either, I just don't remember his real name, otherwise I'd gladly use it - I have no respect for others' privacy) from the Ellisville police department." Unmarked car, plain clothes.

I invited him in. He proceeded to tell me about how he'd tracked me down via my former apartment manager, who knew my butcher, who was friends with my baker, who's sister dated my candlestick maker, who knew my address. He said they had a guy in custody who had stolen my identity and was opening accounts, renting vehicles, etc. under my name.

I immediately freaked out. I'd heard stories of how this happened fairly regularly, but it had never happened to me. I'd never lost my wallet, never left my credit cards anywhere... nothing.

The cop said this guy had gotten a driver's license, gym membership, etc. using my name, but hadn't charged anything to any of my current accounts, banged my wife, or anything else of a malicious nature.

Well, maybe he had banged my wife. I didn't know for sure. But anyway.

Just then, the doorbell rang. My brain still swimming, I left the cop sitting in the kitchen for a minute while I headed to the door, prepared to bust some Jehovah's Witness cap. I never anticipated what I'd see next.

Skinny legs, fluffy white feathers, beak. Your standard run-of-the-mill Gallus Domesticus. Well, I should say, a guy dressed up in a chicken suit.

I took one hesitant step backward, while quickly replaying the last few minutes in my head.

Cop tracked me down. Stolen identity.

Man in chicken suit at door.

Yep. It was all true. For a moment, I contemplated the possibility that I had slipped deep into the Twilight Zone. Next, I considered that huffing whipped cream from aeresol cans throughout my adolescent years had taken its toll.

Then, I became suspicious. It crossed my mind that these two guys could be working in cahoots, looking for unsuspecting people to rob or pillage. Or, that my friends had been busy planning some sort of retribution for something.

So with chicken man in plain sight, I looked back into the kitchen, half expecting to see that the cop had changed into a gorilla suit and was rifling through drawers, pocketing silverware. That was not the case, he was quietly sitting at the table where I had left him.

"Can I help you?"

Off came the chicken head. It was Bill, the Schwann's man, making the rounds, taking orders, delivering food.

In a goddamn chicken suit.

Side note: It must have been a real shitty day when Bill - a grown man making 10 dollars an hour driving around in a smelly, faded mascot outfit selling frozen food door-to-door, realized that he had made such a serious vocational error.

Despite it all, I was curiously calm. This was, I reassured myself, simply a set of coincidental circumstances that, in a billion years, could never be repeated.

I told Bill we didn't need anything this week, but that he made a really good-looking chicken. He laughed and informed me he had studied method acting in college. He went on his way.

I then went to the phone and called the number on the cop's business card, just to make sure he WAS an officer. It all checked out.

The cop told me he needed nothing from me... the suspect was in custody and would be facing all the appropriate charges, but that he'd follow up in a few days with a progress report, to give me a little peace of mind. I told him thanks, and he left.

I sat quietly for a few minutes, pondering the events of the day. I'm not sure if I felt more violated by the stolen identity or the chicken man. It was only about 11 am, but this would be as good a time as any to start drinking.