Now, how was I going to do a follow-up to this? I could post another sign on my car reading I RUN A COMEDY SITE AND WOULD APPRECIATE IT IF YOU COULD ENGAGE ME IN SOME KIND OF CONFLICT SO I WILL HAVE SOMETHING TO WRITE ABOUT. Would I have to construct an enormous paper-mache likeness of Osama bin Laden on top of my car, like the Oscar Meyer Wienermobile, but with a turban and beard? I was praying I would not have to take the premise to its obvious conclusion, driving down the Massachusetts Turnpike with a car dealership-sized American flag burning in the wind.
On Friday, I was driving to the picture framing shop, the declaration of Osama-love still pasted to my rear windshield, when a bearded guy in his mid-forties pulled up beside me in a battered blue Volvo and gave me the finger. He was loudly shouting something at me, but I had my windows rolled up and couldn't hear him. I looked away at the light, which was still red (we were at a six-way stop ... of course), then back at him. He was getting extremely agitated, really yelling at me now, so I gave him a friendly half-wave, as you might give to someone whom you think you have met before, but are not quite sure. When the light turned green, I high-tailed it out of there, and made a surprise right turn at the next street, which ended up being a tiny public alley. It was also, sadly, a dead-end.
The guy pulled his Volvo over to the curb -- actually, it was more on top of the curb -- and got out. Now I was trying to back out of the alley, but it was a holiday weekend and there was a steady stream of traffic coming the other way. The bearded fellow was still yelling. "YOU THINK THAT'S FUNNY?" he shouted.
Now, Boston has some aggressive drivers, and I have twice in my life been confronted by people who got out of their car to come over and do something to me. Both times I leapt out of my seat, like I was ready to duke it out, then gave them a surprise hug. This is the most confusing thing you can do to an enraged male, because he thinks you're either gay, or more insane than he is. As the guy approached my car, I briefly consider doing the hug trick, then decided that discretion is the better part of valor, and chickening out is the better part of discretion. I locked my door instead.
"YOU LOVE BIN LADEN, HAH?" he hollered, pronouncing it "Bin LAY-den," like Jerry Lewis. He was wearing a tattered button-down sweater, and jeans which looked like they had seen better days, such as the Carter administration. "OPEN THE DOOR!" he screamed.
I furtively glanced behind me, trying to find an opening in the traffic. He rapped on my driver side window, and I briefly feared it might break. "C'MON, OPEN UP!" he yelled. I saw an opening between cars, not nearly wide enough, but I gunned it backwards anyway. A car behind me slammed on its brakes and honked. "HEY!" yelled the bearded guy, and before I could get my stick shift in first gear, he ran over and KICKED MY CAR. He kicked my door like a Brazilian soccer player. I thought for sure he had dented it, but I didn't stop to trade insurance policy information. I got the hell out of there.
When I got to the framing store, I took down the signs. I'm willing to put a lot on the line for the sake of comedy, but not the finish on my 1993 Tercel. I don't love Osama that much.
If you enjoyed The Patriotic Prank, you should read The Super Stunt, in which ZUG infiltrates the biggest American event of the year: the Super Bowl.
