The Last Great Insult
WAS STARTLED WHEN THE GUY WHIZZED past me in his matte-black BMW i8. He was gunning it down my street, all but leaving smoldering tire tracks like in and, perhaps most damningly, making the pavement vibrate to the new Drake album. My dander got all the way up, and I shouted it before I had time to think. Not “Hey!” Not “Slow down, asshole!” Not “Hey, this is a residential neighborhood full of kids and dogs and at least one family with a giant tortoise as a pet, but that’s a story for another time—slow down, asshole!” No.
