Humor

An Open Letter to the A-Hole In A Pickup Truck Who Splashed Me With Dirty Snow

Yes, I know “A-hole in a pickup truck” is redundant.

Photo by Filip Bunkens on Unsplash

Dear Mike,

No, I don’t really know your name, but I feel like it’s Mike.

I feel like a Mike would have a giant truck and whip past me doing 65 in a 45 while I labored like a Soviet political prisoner in Siberia trying to shovel out my driveway while my boss went skiing in Richpeopleville, Ohio.

I mean, you saw me, right, Mike? I was hard to miss in my oversized, David Byrne-like black coat and red hat, hunched over like a peasant during the Middle Ages trying to dig up a single potato to feed my family of 12.

There’s two options here, Mike. Either you saw me and didn’t care that you were about to cover me in a sheet of filthy snow like I was in the front row at some depraved Sea World performance. Or, you just didn’t care.

I’m betting it’s the latter.

You clearly had places to go, other people to be rude to. (To whom to be rude? I’m not going to worry about it. Grammar is probably not your strong suit.) You flew past a slow-moving tractor further down the road like your ass was on fire. Which, maybe it was.