Knuckle Bones

Gotta knuckle down or my life's gonna look like a dog's breakfast. Not that I'm a doubting Thomas, but sometimes you just have to face the music. Today I was driving to the Post Office when, for the love of Pete, some old dude nickel-and-dime driver tried to run me into another lane because he wanted to be where I was. Now, that's poking the bear 'cause when some idiot wants to play king of the hill, it's a dicey situation and there's gonna be the Devil to pay.

I draw the line, though, when the wife is in the car (she's the apple of my eye), even though I really wanted to drop a dime on that wanker. Who knows, maybe the old coot was armed to the teeth and he might've just went off all Dirty Harry on me. He's probably the kind of guy, too that drives balls to the wall like his hair's on fire, without a care in the world.

It really was all over but the shouting. We bandied a few words car-to-car...well, I saw him check his mirror while I had a few choice words. "By George!" I shouted. Not much bang for my buck, if you ask me.

Generally, though, when I'm between a rock and a hard place I give the rock his space, however beyond the pale. I'll let him be the Big Cheese in his own mind since I know what's up. I bite the bullet with the thought that one day that old geezer is going to kick the bucket and I've got TWO Uncle Bob's.