Bloglander

Saturday at noon, North Pines pulling out of the Mirabeau church parking
lot. Hey asshat, I can see that you're looking left trying to take a right
to get into traffic. That's why as I approached from your right on the
sidewalk jogging with my dog, I stopped. And I whistled. And waved my arms.
And yelled. And gestured to your little 6 year old-ish son in the front
seat who saw me, say something to your dad. Then I started to walk in front
of you to get on with my run. (remember douche bag, I'm a pedestrian,
there's something called a right of way and your 2 tons of steel don't have
it). Sure enough, that's when you make your move to get going and came
within inches of running me and my dog over, or at the least pushing us out
into traffic so we could really get ran over by a 40 MPH northbound truck.
I've worked too hard coming off a back injury to get to the point where I
could even go jogging and I really don't need the set back of getting run
over by some inattentive dipshit. Fine, just fine, go ahead, kill me but
you hurt my dog, then you really got me pissed. So then all I can do is
yell, but I'm sure you still didn't hear me. I should of pretended my fist
was a 6 inch round piece of hail and really left an impression on your
hood. And classy move squealing your tires as you pull away. Maybe train
your 6 year old kid to speak up next time and let you know what's going on
with the other half of your driving responsibilities. Obviously the "adult"
driver has too much on his plate or too little in his head. Or better yet,
let little Junior dumbass drive.