We've got it pretty easy in the modern age. Most of us manage to scrounge together enough resources to cover the basic human needs -- food, water, shelter, and one of those pens where the girl's clothes disappear when you shake it up.


But there are perils afoot, even with our twenty-first century wonders. We may not have to dig our own water wells or build our own caves or grill our own hamburgers like the Neanderthals did, but we still have our problems. Last night, I experienced one of the more sublime sources of modern fear, just as thrilling and as frightening as harpooning a mammoth or evolving an oversized forebrain.


I nearly ran out of gas.


Now, to be fair, I've never actually run out of gas before. That doesn't make it any less scary. I've never harpooned a mammoth, either, but I'm pretty sure I'd soil my bearskin if I ever tried.


(And yes, for the record, there are those who say I've never evolved a forebrain, either. Shaddup, you.)


Anyway, there I was -- staring down the asphalt jungle of the Massachusetts Turnpike, with an 'Empty' fuel light glowing bright orange like the dying rays of a Paleolithic sunset. I was running on fumes, with fourteen miles till the next exit. And the last thing I wanted was to become the jackass with no gas on the side of the interstate. Nobody wants to be that jackass. Even the cops don't like that jackass.


Cop: Are you having car trouble, sir?
No-Gas Jackass: Um... yeah. Car trouble.

Cop: What happened? Carburetor blow?
No-Gas Jackass: No.

Cop: Crack a piston?
No-Gas Jackass: Nope.

Cop: Bust a tire? Drop an axle? Lose a fender?
No-Gas Jackass: No, officer. I ran out of gas.

Cop: Oh. Ran out of gas. That's it, eh?
No-Gas Jackass: Yes, sir.

Cop: Nothing else? Sure you didn't break a nail or something out there?
No-Gas Jackass: *sigh* No, sir.

Cop: You need a blankie? Is it your nap-nap time?
No-Gas Jackass: Um, officer, can I just get back in my car and wait for the tow truck?

Cop: Sure, sure, go ahead. I'm just going to call the other guys to come down and taunt you through the windows, break out the taillights, that sort of thing.
No-Gas Jackass: That, um... that seems fair.

Cop: Standard procedure, sir. Jus' doin' my job.


Luckily, I made it to the exit and coasted into the first gas station off the highway. Which means I paid through the nose for my fuel -- those guys know when they have a captive, desperate audience. But at least I didn't have to face Officer Smartymouth and his patrolling squad of wiseasses. Those guys are ruthless, and they rarely have anything better to do out there. Plus, they carry tasers. I think my life is thrill-packed enough, without getting into that.

I've found a new way to combat road rage. Not cure it, mind you. The only true cure for road rage would involve the passing of several unpopular new laws, the repossessing of millions upon millions of other peoples' cars, and prohibitively expensive crosswalk vouchers for pedestrians. Also, murders. Lots and lots of murders.


In the meantime, we have to live in our imperfect world of jaywalking jackasses and nearsighted grandmas clogging up the express lanes. My new method of coping is very simple --from now on, when I feel the urge to scream and rant and shake my little fisticles at some asshole in my way, I'll do it in the same voice I use to praise my dog.


So far, I've gotten some very strange looks. But I'm pretty sure my blood pressure is down, so it seems to be working.


For instance, last night I was on my way home and stopped at a red light. Just as the opposing light turned yellow, a plain-looking young lady chittering on a cell phone stepped off the curb to cross in front of my car. Sloooooooowly. When the light turned green, she was still walking in front of my grill, leaving me and the four cars behind mine to wait her out. Did she get the clue and hustle across? No. If anything, she toddled just a little bit slower, yakking away and oblivious to the roadblock she had become.


This sort of thing irks me to no end. My feeling is, if you're going to break the rules that society lays out, then at least get the hell out of other peoples' way when you do it. I've got nothing against victimless crimes. You can jaywalk if you want. You can speed, you can make illegal U-turns, you can snort toadstools and drop your pants in the park and make 'woo-woo-woo!!' noises. Knock yourself out. But when it starts affecting other people -- like, for instance, me -- then we have a problem. That's when I vote to stuff you in a tutu, throw you in a cell with 'Mervin the Maimer', and see how this whole Darwinism thing works.


So normally, I would've unleashed an angry, obscenity-laced tirade at the woman shuffling along in front of my car. But as I opened my mouth to vitriolize, I remembered my new policy, and instead waggled a finger at her and said:


'Oooh, who's an ignorant widdle bitch, then? It's you! Yes, you is. You was beaten with the ugwy stick, too, wasn't you? Oooh, yes you was! Who's an ugwy widdle ignowamus?'


She just kept inching through the crosswalk -- but as long as I was talking at her like she was a four-legged drooling fuzz-faced moron, it didn't seem so bad. And as long as nothing I do is going to help the situation, why not sneak in a little ridicule of my fellow man or woman?


I had another chance to practice on the way to work this morning. Some jackhole in the left lane decided that he really needed to swerve in front of me over to the exit on the right. Like, RIGHT NOW! With no warning or turn signal to be seen. But did I honk? Did I flip him the bird, or call into question the legitimacy of his birth, or his mother's honor, or the relative size of his male ancestors' genitalia, as I normally would?


No. I simply reached out a hand in his direction, to pretend I was scritching him behind his reckless fuzzy little ears, and I said:


'There's my little dumbass, careening through traffic, yes you are. You're going to die someday soon in fiery widdle crash, aren't you? Oh my, yes. And the people will come and waugh at your charred wemains, won't they? Yes, they will! Goodness!'


I'm liking this idea more and more. I'm calm, I'm peaceful, and I'm at least twenty percent less likely to smash in some idiot's windshield with a softball bat. And maybe just a little closer to the right frame of mind to finally teach my dog how to drive. Even if she can't reach the pedals or read the road signs, she'll be Mutt-io Andretti compared to most of these assbags.

I was driving home from work today when another car came speeding up behind me, fast. We were on a large street -- two lanes in each direction, and stop signals every so often -- but traffic was light at that time of evening.


I was cruising to a stop at a red light as the guy came barrelling toward me. A few dozen yards behind my car, he gunned the motor to outrace a car in the next lane, swerved suddenly around him, and pulled up beside me at the light. Then he iiiiiinched forward, to gain an edge on sliding into my lane in front of me when the light turned green.


Now, I won't lie to you -- I'm a pretty aggressive driver. If you don't have a bit of bravado while you're driving the streets of Boston, this city will eat you up and shit you out a tailpipe. But there's no call for the sort of overzealous, near-miss, 'damn the torpedoes!' style of driving the fellow beside me was displaying. It's one thing to be aggressive; it's another to take advantage needlessly.


And it really pisses me off.


So, I started iiiiinching forward myself, planning to match the guy horsepower for horsepower and hold my position in my lane. Why should he be in front of me? He doesn't own this lane, the cheeky bastard. This is mah house!


(Kids, please don't try this driving attitude at home. I'm what you call 'jaded', from many years' experience of driving while surrounded by lobotomized drooling assholes.


Also, if you try this sort of thing in Drivers' Ed, your teacher will likely pimpslap you into the dashboard. Take my word for it -- glove compartments sting, dammit.)


I watched as the light for the cross traffic turned yellow, and prepared to defend my lane against the automotive interloper beside me. It was then that I glanced over at the car next to me, and saw something that stopped my twinklytoes mere inches above the accelerator:


The car was a shitbox. A bona fide, rusted-out, hood-dented, bumper-missing, half-painted, 'My Other Car Is a Porsche bumper sticker-wearing Shitbox. With a capital 'S'. One hubcap. Garbage bags over the passenger window. 'WASH ME' clearly visible on the hood, near the chromed nub of an amputated hood ornament.


That changed everything. You see, the Boston area is chock full of rich, cocky jerkwads. You'll see them flitting their BMWs and Mercedes -- and yes, their Porsches -- in and out of traffic, racing stop lights, bending rules, and generally being a gigantic pain in the gas tank. It's these people that I derive immense satisfaction from by cutting off, driving like a cataracted grandma in front of, and otherwise preventing from annoying the living shit out of the rest of road-travelling society. Call it a 'public service', if you will.


(Though, to be fair, I haven't gotten this much perverse pleasure out of a 'good deed' since that old lady I once helped across the street introduced me to her granddaughters, home from college for the summer.


Her twin granddaughters, home from college for the summer. Someone called for a lotion boy?)


Certainly, giving one of those trust fund flapjacks his or her vehicular comeuppance is well worth the effort and gasoline spent. But the shitbox driver -- that's a whole different breed of belligerent. Because the guy or gal driving a late-model 5-series Beemer will, if pressed, back off and grudgingly follow the road rules of polite society. Mustn't scratch Daddy's lease investment, must we?


The shitbox driver, though, has nothing to lose. He's driving an early-80's compact Toyota Tercel sedan, with no hubcaps, a trunk that won't close, and a cassette player that works as long as he's not in third gear. How much worse would his life get, really, if he ran my self-righteous ass into oncoming traffic?


I'm thinking 'none' is approximately the answer, so I make it a rule not to screw around with these people. Anyone willing to risk their own life by pushing a thirty-year-old engine that hard on a public street is clearly a camshaft short of a carburetor already. Am I gonna be the one who pushes him to 'postal'? With my insurance premiums? Masshole, please.


Back on the road, our light turned green, and I had a choice. Let the persnickety asshat have his way and cut in front, or surge forward to try and keep pace with him.


I didn't surge.


I didn't keep pace.


I merely moved off the line at a sane, steady speed, and watched as the jackass pedalled his metal, lurched into my lane, and sped far, far ahead. As he smoked and sputtered his way toward the horizon, I thought I saw parts falling randomly from the chassis. A muffler here, a rearview mirror there -- who knows how much of the car was left when he actually reached whereever he was in such a hurry to get to?


As for me, I made it safely -- albeit quite a bit more slowly -- home. And thanked my lucky dipstick that I'd remembered the 'First Rule of Driving Among Imbeciles':


"Whatever the sign, the signal, or the traffic laws may say --


The jackass in the rusty shitbox always has the right of way."


And that's all you really need to know. Drive safe now, kids.