Open Letter to Mr. S. Weasel

It snowed last night, and this morning, the roads were schizophrenic.  What was worse, while we were slaloming to Jane’s school, some idiot in a blue pickup made me say a bad word in my kid’s hearing.

 I would like to apologize to both my daughter and the gentleman in question and try again:


When the roads are covered in slush and thick ice, and you decide to turn left on red, as is your right as long as the one-way running perpendicular is clear, it would be much appreciated if you could make sure that the specific lane for which you are aiming is clear and not occupied by another car, which will then have to slam on the brakes and invoke various dark and midnight deities to avoid rearending your truck. 

You might keep in mind that other drivers may not care to slam brakes—or invoke deities—in icy slush and that even in the driest conditions, slotting your pickup between two cars maintaining standard safe distance may drastically reduce this safe distance between you and the car you’ve just cut off.  Especially if the car you’re now tailgating is going a scant twenty miles an hour because of the slush.

I would be personally grateful if you would take into consideration that either car might contain children—a child of almost-eight, perhaps, whose mother would like to keep her around for a little longer and whose vocabulary is already a bit too sophisticated for her age. 

In return, please accept my deepest apologies for calling you a fuckstick at the top of my lungs.  In hindsight, you were clearly exhibiting shitweasel behavior, and I should have reacted accordingly.


The driver of the Honda Civic at the bottom of the Interstate off-ramp.

Ah . . . that’s better.