I returned from the morning walk, and apparently I had not received the memo announcing that today is “Try to Run Jimbo Down Day”. At least three people seemed to be doing their damnedest to turn me into road pizza.
Oh, yeah. I know what’s going on. The temperature was in the mid to high forties, and I was walking in a tee shirt, a nylon windbreaker and shorts. I guess if you’re driving your SUV with the heater on and you’re dressed as if you were about to make the final push to the summit of Mount Everest, you feel it’s perfectly fine to try to kill a guy wearing shorts.
Memo to you woolen-hatted, parka-wearing, ski-gloved douchebags: “Yo! Scrotum Puss! Nobody’s telling YOU to wear shorts, so STFU, and focus on driving the car so as not to commit vehicular homicide.”
And, when I was two blocks away from home and satisfied that I had left the Asshole Zone, I encountered an old guy (yeah, older than I am), leisurely strolling in the other direction. Like the goose-down covered SUV drivers, he too was dressed appropriately for ice fishing. He gave me a big smile, then broke out in laughter as he pointed somewhere between my ass and my knees and said, with a heavy Eastern European tongue, something that sounded like. “Dyoo plany gledge!”
I checked my shorts to see whether they were ripped, possibly exposing my plany, or maybe my gledge. Everything was fine. Apparently the guy was just one of the seemingly endless varieties of Jersey Nutbar.