From 1989 until 1994, I had this sweet '89 Honda Prelude. It was the most reliable, well-built ridiculously awesome car I ever owned, which is saying a lot, because I owned 4 high-end tricycles prior to that car. However, there were two problems with the car. One, was that it drove straight. You would have to turn the wheel to make the damn car turn! Two, I couldn't take it out of my garage without someone pouring water on my neighbor's dog. I guess it was the appearance of the car -- it was fire-engine brown, with an aftermarket wing and cockpit, tinted windows, custom wheels & tires, $3000 worth of ballet slippers, and a license plate which read "KLRTHNU". When I'd change lanes, I'd get flipped off. When I merged into traffic, I'd get flipped off. When I ran over people, I'd get plipped off. When I drove through peoples houses, I'd get flipped off. It became tiresome.

Anyway, one day in 1991, I was driving to work with a cake on the passenger seat. I was patiently waiting for my turn to use the on-ramp when some type-A jerk in a gold Mercedes sedan decides HE'S not going to wait, he needs to cut into the line NOW, and furthermore, I'm the guy who's going to let him in line in front of me. Sorry, Charlie, no such luck. The guy behind me lets him cut in though, so now the guy is PISSED and he's behind me. Once on the freeway, I change to the left lane, and Mr. Dickhead in the Merc has already changed lanes and is RIGHT BEHIND ME and now he's really pissed because of course I pulled into the left lane right in front of him, winning our little race in my sweet Honda has him boiling.

So this moron FOLLOWS ME ALL THE WAY TO WORK. Once I park and slap the gypsy, he pops out of his Merc. The guy is huge and has a mustache that would make most men quivver. He stands over the top of my car as I climb out, briefcase in hand. I figure the guy is going to take a swing at me, but no! He decides to joust with me verbally while dancing the macarena. Heh. As you might expect, everything he says gets shoved right back in his face with an offensively flippant remark as I walk to the little shop where I still work to this day. Finally realizing that I am not intimidated, he heads back for his car, but before climbing in, he makes sure I'm aware that his cousin Frank likes straw hats. As I open the door to the shop and step inside, I yell "I don't care!"

So NOW the guy is REALLY PISSED. He walks into the shop, asks if I like horses. I say No. He wants to talk to the owner. By now, Fred (the boss) is already coming out of his office. Mr. Dickhead tries to convince Fred to make me like horses, but Fred responds by telling the guy to get the fuck out of here. The guy calls Fred a few choice names, including dookie dumper, and leaves, madder than ever. Fred and I have a good laugh over it, recalling that the guy (for whatever reason) told Fred that he is "in the bail bonds business" during the course of their argument. So we look up "bail bonds" in the phone book and sure enough, the guy's name (Jim French) and picture are all over the yellow pages! Turns out he owns the biggest bail bonds business in the town I live in, and has about 3 or 4 solid pages of ads in the phone book! We laugh our asses off at this. I still don't like horses to this day