Blogfather: Whack-a-Roll

Someone messes with my wife? I mess with them. I’m taking out a contract and, for once in my life, I know the perfect someone for the job.

The Blogfather mansion is located on an estate in a subdivision of 400 homes crammed onto two acres that used to be serene pasture land. The mansion is cleverly disguised, designed to be totally nondescript, in order to blend in with the other 399 homes so that no one would ever suspect is it the home of The Blogfather.

This little slice of Americana is located within city limits (police protection) of a small, conservative and dusty rural town.

The only ingress and egress to this magical land of subdivision is a busy arterial surface street. To add insult to injury, as if going to work wasn’t injurious enough, every morning I have to go through this intersection to get to work. I had playfully dubbed it “The Gauntlet of Death.”

I thought moving to a small town was supposed to bring a different way of life? Over a decade ago I vacationed here in March to check out real estate. The whole area was deserted like a ghost town. I bought a house and moved back in July. The place was crammed with wall to wall cars. Well played, Universe. I just got baited and switched. I salute the master.

The traffic in this little burg was totally unexpected. In the past I’ve said it’s like living on Coruscant, the home planet of the Empire. You could be in the most secluded corner of town at the quietest time of day when you roll up on an intersection. Sit tight. There are cars as far as the eye can see. This is gonna take a while.

Every locale has their own driving culture and this place is no different. When I first moved here I was literally stunned at the way cars would s-l-o-w-l-y pull out in front of you. They would do this no matter how fast you were traveling or how far you were away. It was like they considered pulling out in front of you to be their birthright or something. After living here through the Decade of Despair, though, I’ve come to realize it’s just a side effect of this town being a miniature replica of The Empire’s home planet. People have decided they have to risk their lives to do things like cross the street.

Anyway, across from our subdivision is another arterial street that empties into the intersection known as The Gauntlet of Death. That makes the intersection we take to work every day quite the little Nexus of Evil. (It has many names. All I know is I fucking hate it.) The incoming traffic comes down a hill so the cars look like they are flying. It almost feels like they are racing to block us out. But I know that’s mostly an effect of gravity and probably not deliberate.

We have to turn left to head into town. The other side of the street turns right. Therefore they have a physical proximity advantage over us. Cars that arrived to the intersection a half an hour after us usually make their turn and get on their way long before we ever do. We have to wait for cross-traffic. They don’t.

Monday morning my wife was sitting there waiting her turn. She’s more patient than me and takes less chances. Me? I’ll squirt through any opening large enough to make the bastard behind me spill his coffee.

While she waited, a small penis mobility device (SPMD) came cresting over that opposing hill. An SPMD is most often a pickup truck. In cases of extreme shrinkage it usually has the truck body jacked up higher than the wheels and may even be sporting a set of truck nuts. This particular SPMD was a jacked up pickup truck, beat to shit, sporting two giant flags flying in the breeze, and there was an old hound dog chained in the bed. One of the flags was Confederate in nature. My wife is unsure about the other flag. Perhaps it was “Don’t Tread On Me.” Those are common around here. One thing she did know: It wasn’t the flag of the United States.

It was driven by a man with more facial hair than Osama Bin Laden (but fuzzier and not as kempt) who looked like one of the gold miners so common around here that had just crawled out of the hills, leaving his two-holer behind, in search of supplies in the “big city” in his vernacular. (Also known as my tiny little town.)

Gold miners used to be somewhat respectable and had a certain look of old-time charm. These days some of them have a whole new look going on. That crazed look in the eye from living up in the hills for far too long without electricity or the being in the company of other people. They live on government lands with their little mining claims and think that gives them ownership (it doesn’t) and shoot at innocent people who wander through just enjoying nature because they’re tresspassin’ (they ain’t). I don’t know if this dude was really a gold miner, but his description sure fit the local crazies.

This is where the story comes to a climax. You probably already guessed it. That bastard rolled up on the Nexus just as the cars parted like the Red Sea and my wife finally had an opening to make her move. He was slowing and hadn’t reached the limit line yet.

The other driver, being a fear-based carbon-based life form, saw it was my wife’s turn did what any of us would do. He gunned his engine, lunging forward, and blew through that stop sign while making a hard right turn thus fucking my wife out of her birthright.

Here’s the funny part. (The payoff for you, the loyal reader who made it this far.) He overreacted and pulled more G-forces than his little pea-sized brain intended. (If it was even capable of intending anything at all.) The shit he called possessions went flying off his truck like rats abandoning ship. That poor dog also went sliding wildly and my wife was afraid it was going to choke. There was a substantial debris field including an entire spare tire which was sent rolling and my wife thought was going to hit her car. (It missed.)

The phrase “secure your load – it’s the law” is apparently unknown to this fellow. As are other laws like gravity and inertia that are completely unknown to him as manners and a bar of soap.

My wife has a beautiful aura, exudes positive energy and is much more gracious than me. (By about a billion percent.) She immediately sped after the man to let him know that he’d strewn some items. Apparently he noticed her approaching and – get this – he sped up to get away from her! My wife thinks he was afraid.

My wife was flashing her headlights, honking her horn, and waving to get his attention but he refused to stop. Finally he executed a hard right maneuver and sped away down a side street.

Normally this would be the end of the story. But not this time. Now I’m the Blogfather and I feel he has disrespected me famiglia. If I don’t make an example of him I’m going to have people getting uppity all over the place. So I’m putting out a hit on this guy. It’s time for a rub out. Knock him off. I need someone to pop him. Go to the mattresses which, strangely enough, was about the one item he didn’t spill.

He shouldn’t be too hard to find, eh? He sticks out like a sore thumb.

And I know the perfect someone for the job. Call it poetic justice. I’ve attached below a highlight reel of some of his previous work.