Fun With Truckers

This morning, I was driving on the Thruway heading to work. When I looked up in my rear-view mirror, all I saw was chrome. I swear this rig had to have been like five feet from my ass-end, tops. So I wait about 10 or 15 seconds, expecting that he's like pulling out or something. I look back, still there.

That's when the fun begins.

Now, it's a 65 MPH zone, I'm doing 75 and I'm in the slow lane. I don't think he's got any right to bitch about how slow I'm going.

So I pump the brakes. Hard. As in "my Jeep decelerates almost immediately to the 65 MPH speed limit".

I hear the screech of air brakes behind me, and I see his ass-end and cab swinging slightly in the same direction as he veers a bit so as not to impale me with his truck.

Now, he's all pissed, comes flying up on my side, laying on the horn, etc. etc., like I'm some kind of asshole.

I am, but not nearly as much of an asshole as he thought. Why? Because I caught sight of something as he drove by...

The phone number of his employer. No, not one of those lame "How's my driving?" stickers, but the actual painted-on-the-side-of-the-cab phone number.

So I called. The guy who answered was pleasant enough. I explained what happened. He asked me "can you catch up with him?"

"Sure," I said. And proceeded to do so.

After reading off to him the truck number, the pleasant southern-sounding gentleman explained to me, in no uncertain terms, that, are you ready, this wasn't the first time he's gotten a complaint against "Bob" (he told me his name, but I honestly forget).

"Bob," it seems, according to the pleasant gentleman, is going to eventually get back to the depot, and find himself with an appointment at the unemployment office.

Fucker. Serves him right.