I'm the guy who brings you your hot, delicious pizza on the night that you get home from work tired and hungry. I'm only too happy to do it, especially if you tip well. If you don't . . . well . . . at least I get mileage pay, and the smug knowledge that there's a special place in hell reserved just for you. Kidding, of course. What really irks me are people who don't pay attention when they drive.
I was on a delivery the other day, approaching an intersection preparing to turn right, when a Porsche Cayenne turned left in front of me, forcing me to slam on my brakes. The beauty part? Once I was behind this joker, he drove 30 mph down a 40 street. My immediate though was "Damn this person. I hope he dies". Then I thought about it, and you know, I don't actually hope he dies. In fact, if you are the owner of said Porsche, I don't wish death on you.
I imagine that you cut me off because you were tired after a 10-hour day at your soul-draining job. As you approach the Taco Bell drive-through, you see a long line of cars, but you sigh and pull in anyway. When you order a double-beef gordita with extra sour cream, they tell you they're out of them. Again, you sigh and order five soft shell tacos (extra sour cream of course), some nachos, and a large root beer. You get your food and realize as you're pulling out that you're almost out of gas. Home is three miles away. Your 500-horsepower turbo V8 will never make it, so you have to stop for gas. You pull into the nearest gas station, but unfortunately all the pumps are taken, so you have to wait while someone fills up his Chevy Suburban. When he's done, you see the "flex fuel" sticker on the back of his car and come to the horrifying realization that you're waiting for a natural gas pump, so you have to pull around to one of the other pumps and wait. This time, the guy in the Ford F-350 finishes up and you realize you're at a diesel pump. Third time's the charm, and finally you're on your way again.
Your dinner is now cold, but it'll taste good anyway once you're home. As you approach the final intersection before your house, some jackass in a little dinky Subaru, just like the one I drive, turns left in front of you. You slam on the brakes and your dinner flies into the dashboard, spilling ground beef, lettuce, cheese, extra sour cream, and root beer all over your leather interior and on your expensive suit.
The moral of this story: let's not wish death on our fellow human beings. Only inconvenience.