Road Rage, or It Happened One Night

I am a marvelous housekeeper.

Every time I leave a man

I keep his house.

                         —Zsa Zsa Gabor

 

Character is what

you are inside your

car. Forget that in-the-

dark rubbish.

 

It’s when you’re driving

solo that you’ll cuss to

kingdom come. Raise a

phallic finger to the putz

who’s jumping lanes as if

it’s tennis; Zsa Zsa

flipping husbands

like she’s Century 21;

 

then the Sunday morning clods

inside their putt putt, plodding to

St. Satan’s

like a slug upon a sloth.

Their honk if you love Jesus

makes you reach for a

phantom musket.

 

The cops who flout

the rules are even

worse. Kings of the

Rolling Stop. Rubbing their

exemptions in your face.

They’ll read your lips with

ease—as though they’re

HAL 9000—

know obscenities like a

wiener knows its beans.

 

The clown who rides

your ass is just as grating.

His bumper mounts

your trunk as if

a hippo in his heat.

Bruh, there’s kids

around.

 

Then the lie

from GPS,

stating your ETA is

merely an hour away—

as though there are

no potholes, the nonchalant

of reds, each one

timed to your fury, how much

you’re in a hurry—

and the pedestrians

who dawdle as they

cross, fixated on their

phones, googling

Wimpy’s Diner,

or maybe Shangri-la,

 

musing on how much

further they’ll have to mosey,

thumbs up to the wind,

catch a lift

like Claudette Colbert,

skirt pulled to her

thigh, Gable left

blindsided by a

siren’s ability to

pause; leave you idle

by the ditch

as if you’ve no place

better to be that

very moment.

 

 

 

 

Andreas Gripp

July 20, 2026

movie still from It Happened One Night (1934)