No, what I hate is the way every single fucking one of them flicks their butts when they're done. The casual arrogance of it, that the world is their goddamned ashtray. I am thinking about this, not for the first time, while staring fixedly at the flaming butt that has just landed on my hood. I consider getting out, picking it up and using it to burn the arm of the redneck asshole in the big pickup the next lane over who threw it. But the light changes.
So I start moving and then, naturally, wouldn't you know, that butt rolls up my hood and right into my fresh-air vents. Oh, the irony. I pull over. Can't reach it, with the hood up or down. Nothing. Nada. Just have to deal with a veritable cloud of noxious smoke coming into the car. That hadn't been just a butt—it was only half-finished, and would take a long time to burn down. Long enough, in fact, for me to get home and write this in a red rage before it was done.
"Smells Like Teen Spirit" came on the radio while I was on my way. Perfect. I hadn't screamed along to that since the year it came out, but it sure felt good to do so now.
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