Driving Mr. F*ckhead

By Garion Bel

My girlfriend bought me this great cell phone accessory; an earpiece with a microphone. What-is-it-fucking-called? A Headset.

I’ve had some great conversations in my truck lately. People, I find are more likely to call me when I am trying to fucking drive, pissed off at some old bastard who drives like he probably fucking walks, or swerving away from some oblivious fuck female driver.

Now I can talk to friends about coming over to play cards and drink all night, and not have to throw the phone down every time I shift.

I can yell at that geriatric veteran in the car next to me, “You stupid fucker!” All I have to do is shake my head, smile, and point to the headset. It’s great. It’s hands-free. I only wish I could ignore the stupid fuck natives that pull up next to me to ask what year my truck is, only to tell me what year his piece of shit is, tell me the year and model truck he wants to fucking buy, and pull off without another fucking word, confusing the shit out of me every fucking time it happens. Which is twice this month.

But most importantly I can, without fear of getting caught, talk to myself all I fucking want. I started talking to the truck to get the neighbor to stop asking for rides. Now it’s just an entertaining habit. Practice for the big show that will end in bloodshed.

Fuck old bastard neighbor: “Hey Garion, how are ya?” “Hey its kinda hot today isn’t it?”

Consider for a moment. If I were to kill this man who would miss him? If I stabbed him for every time I have heard the word Hey come out of his mouth, would there even be a body left to dispose of? Moving up the stairs more quickly never helps, so I reply and invite disaster, “Yep, Hot, and hey is for fucking horses.”

Fuck old bastard neighbor: “I’ll probably play some golf later,”

The old bastard likes to play golf. I really need to get out to the swamp and catch an alligator; I could feed it his cat and then his corpse. At the top of the stairs a grateful lock accepted a key and turned itself open,

Fuck old bastard neighbor: “Say I was wondering if you could take me up to the store for some beer and cigarettes.”

I leave my cell on the stairs and smile like I want to be his fucking friend. I dangle the wire into the seat of the truck and rant like a fucking lunatic. The people in the car next to me think I am on the phone while I yell at my buddy in Tampa, but the fuck head neighbor just thinks it’s funny.

Saint Garion

Bel Garion, who also goes by the name Saint Garion started writing columns in our early years and continued to 2006. He often refers to "The Lord" and "Buddah" which are the names of his dogs which speak to him on a regular basis.

5 thoughts on “Driving Mr. F*ckhead

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