I may be guilty of some degree of manslaughter.
So yesterday I was driving on the highway, minding my own business, grooving along to, you know, the Spice Girls. Typical Saturday afternoon trip to the blood bank. I'm singing along in between sips of my Yoo-hoo. It was two days past the expiration date, but money doesn't grow on trees, am I right? Anyway, so this yellow VW bug comes zooming by out of nowhere and swerves into my lane. I had to slam on my brakes to avoid a collision, which spilled Yoo-hoo all over the place. I shouldn't open more than one at a time, I know, but it saves me the trouble of fiddling with lids while I'm driving. I'm sure everyone else does the same thing.
The car just cut me off like I wasn't even there, and now I'm sopping wet. And maybe the Yoo-hoo was a week expired. Sue me. Anyway, it didn't smell good in there at all, and I got pretty upset pretty fast. Who did this guy think he was, cutting me off? I wasn't going to stand for this. I get cut off three or four times a week, and this time it was too much. So I decided, as I wiped at my passenger seat and licked the Yoo-hoo off of my hand, that I was going to give this guy the finger. I had to draw the line somewhere.
So I cranked up Baby, Ginger, Scary, Sporty, and Posh - got to have my backup - and changed lanes, slamming down on the gas so I could catch up to the yellow bug. I was all hopped up on adrenaline at this point, and I decided I was just going to pull up and stick my finger out there without any hesitation and without looking first to see what I was up against. I coasted up, put down my window, and shot my arm out, middle finger held high like a flag waving in the wind.
It was then that I looked to the other car. Two people were inside, both staring at my finger with mouths dropped - shocked. I hesitated for a moment and almost pulled my back inside when I realized that Keith Richards was the driver, and Mick Jagger was riding shotgun. But it was too late. They'd already seen it. And apparently, as mad as I was, they were madder. Keith Richards lost control of the bug, and it shot out toward the median, striking the concrete divider so hard and so fast that as the side of the car gave way, the weight and velocity fell of balance and the car flipped over into oncoming traffic, wheels spinning in the air like desperate hamsters trying to escape from their exercise regimens.
I slammed on the brakes and got out to help. Smoke was everywhere. I had to hold my hand over my mouth to breathe. Everyone else had slowed, watching. I pried the passenger door open, hoping to find movement. But it was too late. Keith Richards and Mick Jagger were both dead.
I killed two Stones with one bird.