Stan began his day in the room over the garage of his sister’s house. He woke just in time to don his Sunday best. Stan hadn’t been to church since he walked down the aisle with his ex-wife Darlene, but the Lord’s house wasn’t where Stan pointed his lifted 1998 Ford F-150. He shifted gears, careful not to wrinkle the authentic NFL game jersey. Never mind that it didn’t bear his last name and would never touch the turf of a stadium.
Stan reached for his Copenhagen roll in the glove box. He took his eyes off the road and swerved into the lane of a female driver. She righted her modest BMW and stepped on the gas to avoid a collision. Stan was not accustomed to being passed by such a capable woman behind the wheel.
He stuck a screwdriver inside the broken handle and manually wound down the window. Otherwise, how could he inquire where she had learned to drive? Ignoring Stan’s red-faced balding head protruding from the truck, she continued to keep her eyes on the road and hands on the wheel.
The lanes merged up ahead. She slowed to a reasonable speed like a human being who understood the laws of inertia. Unlike Stan, who accelerated and changed lanes without using a signal. Unless you counted the fifteen-foot American flags bolted to either side of the truck—which everyone knows is the universal male driver signal for I have the right of way. Overly patriotic Stan understood the versatility of the flag—it was useful in the right or left lanes.
The female driver jammed on the brakes to avoid smashing into Stan’s decorative metal scrotum swinging from his hitch. She thought these must come factory-installed in the special testosterone-driven vehicles. She came to a screeching stop in the nick of time. Stan’s noisy muffler prevented his commentary on female drivers to be heard by one and all, so he shouted out the window.
He didn’t want to be late for happy hour at the Kickin’ Chicken, and he wouldn’t let a little thing like a girl driver or a red light get in his way. His team was going to the Super Bowl this year, and he was their biggest fan. Since the game day jersey wasn’t enough of a clue for the clueless lady, he extended an arm and stuck a finger in the air, letting her know that his team was number one! Stan blew by with his finger raised, Skynyrd blaring from his speakers, black smoke billowing from his tailpipe. Poor Stan didn’t even realize his Let’s Go Brandon bumper sticker was as irrelevant as his jersey.