Random Dude 2

OK, so I meant to post this yesterday, admittedly as more of a filler, but as with all of my good intentions lately, things seemed to have slipped to the wayside. I did find out yesterday that I am really, legitimately sick, and have the prescriptions to prove it, so I'm feeling a bit better about being so lax with my duties herein. I'm not sure what it is about that 10 day mark when you are sick--you go in at 9 days and it's "I know it's miserable, but it's just a virus, and everyone has it, you just have to tough things out." But you go on day 11, and they throw the medicine cabinet at you--I even got a new inhaler thrown in as a very special bonus. Kind of like the asthmatic equivalent of diggin' thru the pirate's booty chest--instead of choosing a stretchy lizard that sticks to the ceiling or a packet of Jonas Brothers tattoos, I got a little ventolin-delight.

But I digress. I wanted to hand out another Random Dude Commuting award to the doofus I saw yesterday traveling westbound on Hall Road. I was just exiting the parking lot where the uber-dreamy P.A. Paul saved me from my respiratory woes, when I came upon our current winner. He was an older fellow, I'd say mid-50's, heavy-set, with a shock, and I do mean a shock of highly unfortunate Don King hair. He was driving a swear-to-God purple Ford F-150, and had 3 rear-window stickers that I just have to share with the world.

Sticker 1 was a number "3" wearing wings and a halo above it, which I believe is referencing the late Dale Earnhart, and is a fairly common sight in these parts, especially on F-150s. Unremarkable. Sticker 2, however, was yet another one of those Calvin Peeing stickers, but this one was extra special. Young Calvin was peeing on the words "My Ex-Wife." Nice. And finally, Sticker 3 was a bumper sticker emblazoned proudly across the back window that said, "My Middle-Schooler is Sleeping with your Honor Student." Really.

It was all I could do to not swerve and force his truck off the road into that deep median ravine thing right by Van Dyke, where there's all those electrical transformers that would turn his purple bestickered jalopy into the stupid-guy barbecue he so justly deserves. Yeah, if it had been just a day or two later, when I was all hopped up on a Dreamy-P.A.-Paul-prescribed prednisone-frenzy, he might not have been so lucky. Still pretty freakin' classy, but definitely not so lucky.