You can’t fix foulness
West Monroe, La., is famous for one thing and it has to do with ducks. Since the Robertsons need absolutely no help in promoting themselves, I’ll leave it at that. Last time I checked, they had their faces on everything from toilet paper to bibles, they don’t need me to tell you what they do in West Monroe.
Unfortunately for us, West Monroe now also represents the city with one of the rudest human beings on Earth living in, and driving like a maniac around it.
We were headed for coffee at the Pilot at exit 112 off of I-20. Traffic was light and moving along, so why the girl in the brand-new Jeep felt the need to careen around us and exit from the hammer lane is something I’ll never understand. She could have waited five seconds and dropped behind without causing any kind of problem, but she either didn’t see us (because we all know a gigantic black and red tractor with flames on it is almost as invisible as duck-hunting cammo) or she had a death wish.
I chose to think she may just be uneducated when it comes to using the road with big trucks, so when she parked her champagne-colored Compass at the four-wheeler fuel isle, I was delighted and took the opportunity to explain a couple of things to her.
Now I’m sure you all think I charged over to her and started screaming, which is exactly what I wanted to do, but I’ve been around for a minute and my momma always taught me the outcome of any conversation is usually determined by the attitude of the approach. So I very politely walked over to her vehicle and said, “Ma’am, may I share a fact with you? When we’re loaded it takes him more than 565 feet to stop that truck. You were about 18 inches from our bumper when you cut us off out there. That’s how people get killed and truckers get blamed for it. You need to be more careful.”
I certainly didn’t expect an apology, or even any indication that she heard me at all, but I felt better knowing she had information that may just save her life one day. Little did I realize I had done the human race a great disservice by helping this individual extend her presence in the mortal coil by even one brief moment. When she opened her mouth to scream at me, this became alarmingly apparent.
“F___ you c___! Bring it on over here — my daddy is a deputy sheriff out here, let’s see what you got. “My good feels dried up instantaneously and were replaced with a burning desire to pick up the first heavy thing I could find and smash the windshield out of her Jeep before grabbing her by the hair and snatching a knot on her head. I’m pretty sure I’m not the only woman in the world who goes to immediate destroy mode when the “c” word is thrown around. In what can only be described as a monumental display of self control on my part, I told her to go eff herself and walked off, while she continued screaming about how I needed to shut my mouth and mind my business while I was in West Monroe, La. I don’t know if this woman really even has a daddy that she knows, but if she does and he actually is a Sheriff’s Deputy, I sincerely hope he’s the one who gets to review the dash cam clip I sent, with a nice letter to the Ouachita Parish Sheriff. I actually had to burn a copy onto disc and send it by snail mail because there isn’t an e-mail address listed on any website anywhere for anyone (including the Sheriff) at the Ouachita Parish Sheriff’s Office. I also hope he gives her the much-needed and probably overlooked spanking he should have given her as a child for being a heinous you-know-what to strangers.
Sometimes, educating the public is hard.
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