Carnival of Rage and Frustration

In case you live in St. Louis and were wondering, the Carnival of Rage and Frustration is the Starbucks on Chippewa and Lansdowne. I had some time to kill before I got my hurr cut and, because I was in the White People Wasteland of St. Louis Hills, decided to get a coffee there. You know how everyone has a certain thing that they just never learn? Like, some people continue drinking after the third DUI, or others keep getting into relationships with batshit crazy people? Well, for me, I never fucking learn with this Starbucks. It’s the nexus of pain in my coffee-getting life, both for its location (it’s impossible to turn into the drive thru lot without looping around a sidestreet if you happen to be going southwest on Chippewa) and for its clientele/neighbors (who are fucking assholes).  Every time I go there, I have a hell of a time driving in, and I always run into the shittiest fucking people in the whole fucking city.

Today, I was driving through the alley behind Starbucks when some guy started pulling out of his garage. Nose first, by the way, so it’s not like he was backing out and had a legitimate excuse for what’s about to happen. This guy’s view was completely unobstructed by dumpsters and I was driving at a speed of maybe 8 miles per hour, so of course he wasn’t paying any fucking attention and came within inches of driving his minivan into my car.

I hit the brakes and punched the horn; he leaned into his horn and gives me the finger. When I returned his gracious gesture with my own finger, he screamed “YOU FUCKING BITCH!” out the window of that sweet ass van. “YOU BITCH! COME OVER HERE IF YOU WANT TO HONK AT ME!”

Now. I never – and I mean NEVER – get worked up enough to participate in exchanges with this type of person. It’s just not worth it. It’s not worth the energy, the buildup of rage, or the possible assault charges because you just never know who’s going to be litigious these days.

But this guy. This fucking guy. Who was driving poorly to begin with, and then had the nerve to call me a bitch like I almost caused an accident. I mean, be an idiot on your own time, sir, but don’t blame me for it. And certainly don’t invite me to come over there and call you an idiot to your face, because you know what, motherfucker? I did just that.

Yeah. I got out of my car. I slammed the door and stood next to it and looked at him, and I’m sorry, but I could not properly articulate how furious I was at the time, because the following just started shooting out of my mouth:

“FUCK YOU! YEAH, YOU LIKE THAT, SHITHEAD? GO FUCK YOURSELF! YOU ALMOST FUCKING HIT ME, YOU FUCKING PIECE OF SHIT!”

Then he started calling me a crazy fucking bitch, which confused me because he was the one who told me to get out of my car in the first place, but he kept yelling and gesturing angrily and made a move like he was getting out of his minivan. Which I could tell was bullshit, because a) he lives in St. Louis Hills and b) he drives a minivan. Like, come on. But the attempt alone was enough to renew my fury, at which point I said:

“YOU WANNA GET OUT OF YOUR FUCKING VAN, TOUGH GUY? FUCKING DO IT. YOU FUCKING COME OVER HERE AND HIT A WOMAN, YOU PIECE OF SHIT! I’LL FUCKING COME OVER THERE AND KICK YOUR FUCKING MINIVAN, ASSHOLE! YOU WANT TO INTIMIDATE ME, YOU GET A FUCKING COP CAR, FUCKFACE!”

Then I got back in my car, shot him a goodbye finger, and drove away. No coffee. There’s no way I could have held it together in any Starbucks drive-thru after that encounter, even one that wasn’t the Carnival of Rage and Frustration.  Because you know, I’m really not a maniac. I get angry like anyone else, but I don’t act on it (especially not in that nutter way), and really, the last time I remember screaming at anyone like that is when my then-husband stole six grand from my checking account and tried lying about it. I was still shaking when I got to the salon and told Katie what happened. She thought it was hilarious, of course, but she also has a big mouth and no impulse control.

But…pffft. Try and threaten me from your minivan, you delusional jackass. See what happens. I’m already at the Carnival of Rage and Frustration, I might as well ride the fucking ride.

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About erineph

I'm Erin. I have tattoos and more than one cat. I am an office drone, a music writer, and an erstwhile bartender. I am a cook in the bedroom and a whore in the kitchen. Things I enjoy include but are not limited to zombies, burritos, Cthulhu, Kurt Vonnegut, Keith Richards, accordions, perfumery, and wearing fat pants in the privacy of my own home.
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2 Responses to Carnival of Rage and Frustration

  1. behindthewpf says:

    Love it. And I’ve done the same thing to a lady on a bike with a baby trailer who nearly ran herself into my car because she thought I needed to stop for her when A. she had a stop sign and B. I didn’t. So she yells something at me as I drive by and I stop the car and get out and tell her she’s in the wrong and then fingers and fuck-yous are exchanged and then we proceed to call each other fucking cunts in front of the kids and I invited her to come over to me so I could kick the shit out of her, but she declined.

    So you totally scared that guy, BTW. He’s probably beating off to you right this very minute.

  2. Becky says:

    Oh. My. God. That would have been great! I wish I could have seen that! Just another reason I like you Erin…

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