Driverz n the Hood

A few weeks ago, I was out for a jog around the swanky 'hood near our penthouse condo. I'm still at the point where jogging is an exhausting, painful ordeal, but it's the only way I have a chance of getting rid of this baby belly blubber because eliminating beer and cheese from my diet is not an option. I was minding my own business, huffing and puffing, when an ultrafancy sparkly red sports car screeched to a desperate halt just ahead of me. The car was so fancy, in fact, that I didn't recognize its make. It looked like the offspring of a Corvette, a Porsche, and a Ferrari, but with a spacecraft quality to it. I'm pretty good with car identification, so perhaps it was one-of-a kind.

I've been taught that you really shouldn't stop a jogger unless it's very important. Because I'm not exactly a speedy runner, it's possible the driver thought I was just out for a leisurely stroll. I felt obligated to stop, figuring he wanted directions. Maybe he was attending a worthy fundraiser and was the keynote speaker?

"Have you seen a small dog?" he asked in an annoyed tone, as if I'd asked him to repeat himself three times. He was a young guy in a tight plaid short-sleeved shirt, the kind popular with today's frat boys, and looked a lot like Nathan Barley. His question was accompanied by some manic gesticulating. I think he was trying to indicate the dog's rough size, but he looked like a methed-up mime repeatedly constructing an invisible box.

"Why, no, I haven't," I said. Before I could say, "Do you live around here? How might I find you if I come upon the small dog?" he turned toward his passenger, a skinny chick with giant sunglasses, tossed up his hands in disgust, and sped off. Not even a thank you. Moments later, he flew by again, going at least 50 in a 25 mph residential zone. I couldn't help but think that little Fifi would make her appearance at that moment and end up flattened. What a colossal asshole.