Tonight, Sunday night, Mr F got upset and so to calm him down so he would go to sleep, I took him for a ride along the usual route that takes us out past the little airport and through the Rich Mall and then back down along main street and home.
As we were going through rich mall, a car pulled up behind us, and then alongside us, and then started to pass us just before we were getting on the highway. The car was some sort of modern version of the IROC Z-28 car that every a-hole jock in history has driven, all sporty in a completely jerk-off way.
As it pulled ahead, I saw that its license plate said this:
4C OF N8R
It took a moment for me to figure it out and the moment I did I thought this, and I know 100% I am right about it, one hundred percent right, as I thought:
There is no way the person in that car is not a complete loser douchebag.
You know I'm right, too. NOBODY worth knowing/continuing to exist would ever feel the need to spend extra money on his hotshot sportscar's license plates to announce to the world that he is a 4C of N8R. Nobody. I'm sitting at home a half-hour later still hating him. I can't even imagine how some people are allowed to exist. In that one license plate I just instantly knew that this was a guy who sucks the life out of every single thing he meets or touches: his sad job in sales, his wife who only married him because she wanted to move out of the house, his kids who are still in trouble for the time they accidentally got jelly on the car door handle, the guys he plays basketball with at the gym who never invite him out for a beer after... everybody hates him, they just won't admit it. He hates himself, too, but is only dimly aware that such an emotion can exist, and the closest he comes to realizing it is when he wonders why he avoids looking at his reflection in a mirror.