Monday, October 16, 2006
Cab Drivers Again
Tonight I was terrorized for fifteen minutes by a cabdriver who swore at me about the Bears game for my entire trip home.
"Addison and Wilton," I told him.
"The Bears aren't gonna win this fucking game, I tell you that," he responded.
Given that my awareness of football is such that I had forgotten there even was a game, I wasn't sure how to respond. I settled for a vaguely affirmative grunt.
"This fucking happens every time they start talking fucking shit. They talk shit, and then they start fucking losing. They need to start focusing on playing the fucking game."
"Yeah," I ventured, "they sure ought to focus."
"All this week, talking about their fucking defense and the goddamned Super Bowl. Shut the fuck up and play the goddamned game."
At this point he was so visibly angry that I feared he might actually strike me should I show less than one hundred percent support for his theory.
"No, you're right; you're definitely right," I solemnly intoned.
"I mean, if you're good enough to fucking back it up then you can go ahead and talk shit. But they're not good enough, see?"
"Yup, you're right about that. Man."
This part I delivered in my deepest, most football-loving voice. And yet the onslaught continued.
"They're not going to win this fucking game, I tell you that."
At this point I simply pretended to place a phone call. Turns out I really can carry on a fake conversation for five minutes.
Tonight I was terrorized for fifteen minutes by a cabdriver who swore at me about the Bears game for my entire trip home.
"Addison and Wilton," I told him.
"The Bears aren't gonna win this fucking game, I tell you that," he responded.
Given that my awareness of football is such that I had forgotten there even was a game, I wasn't sure how to respond. I settled for a vaguely affirmative grunt.
"This fucking happens every time they start talking fucking shit. They talk shit, and then they start fucking losing. They need to start focusing on playing the fucking game."
"Yeah," I ventured, "they sure ought to focus."
"All this week, talking about their fucking defense and the goddamned Super Bowl. Shut the fuck up and play the goddamned game."
At this point he was so visibly angry that I feared he might actually strike me should I show less than one hundred percent support for his theory.
"No, you're right; you're definitely right," I solemnly intoned.
"I mean, if you're good enough to fucking back it up then you can go ahead and talk shit. But they're not good enough, see?"
"Yup, you're right about that. Man."
This part I delivered in my deepest, most football-loving voice. And yet the onslaught continued.
"They're not going to win this fucking game, I tell you that."
At this point I simply pretended to place a phone call. Turns out I really can carry on a fake conversation for five minutes.
