My cancer needed a name, so I am calling it “Tailgater.” It’s a spot of cancer somewhere in the prostate. But it’s not worth even discussing. Nevertheless, I had to give it a handle because “cancer” scares people. Some folks keep their distance, fearing they will catch if from me. I like that. Anyway, I needed to conjure up a name and I wanted it to be like an entity that I passionately despise. Tailgaters fit that description. Tailgaters find me as soon as I turn out of the driveway. This is a Massachusetts thing, don’t try to figure it out. I used to throw water balloons out of the car’s skylight to make them back off. Then I graduated to golf balls. Now I simply stop in the middle of the road and watch for their next move. The predictable reaction is their use of the middle finger bolstered by a guttural scream of “ass___.” And soon I will perfect the driving technique of just ignoring these excitable piston poppers. Just like I am snubbing my cancer, AKA “Tailgater.”
Posted on: Wed, 10 Jul 2013 15:02:47 +0000