Stopped at Starbucks this morning. Not many parking places in front of the Village of Coventry store, and some numbskull had parked really really crooked, taking up two spaces. I squeezed my truck into the adjacent space and went inside, looking for the culprit. About four customers were there. My eyes settled on a 30ish fellow wearing a t-shirt and a New York Yankees cap. Yes, it was him. "Jerk," I muttered under my breath.

I got my decaf and returned to my truck. The car was still there, and Yankee Man was still inside. Being in a particularly juvenile frame of mind, I determined to leave something under his windshield wiper. I found a blank piece of paper in the truck and wrote on it, in big letters, "Is this the best you can do?" Now, the trick would be sticking it under a wiper blade without Bride of Steinbrenner catching me and, in a Billy Martinesque fashion, whooping my butt. This was, indeed, a concern.

I mustered my pseudo-courage and exited the truck, standing on the passenger side of this felonious car which, I noted, was a Mercedes. Jerkboy drove a Mercedes. But just as I prepared to dart to the windshield vicinity, a 50ish woman with poofy blonde hair, the type of woman who occupies an expansive suburban home and spends vast quantities of time at the beauty parlor being pampered, exited Starbucks and headed my way. Headed to the Benz, in fact.

I slunk back into my truck, paper still in hand, mission unaccomplished. I started up the truck and pulled away. But as I drove past this woman, now at her car door, I gave her a Look. You know, a Highly Disapproving Look. I don't think she noticed. But if she did, I'm sure it tormented her upwards of three seconds.

Consolation prize: on the way to work, I passed a silver Corvette broke down beside the highway, the hood up, the driver peering at the engine in puzzlement. I felt happy.

Sometimes, the awe-inspiring transcendence of my maturity overwhelms me.