While walking along Carlton on my way home I espy a car stopping for a red light across the street. There’s a parking ticket flapping crazily in the wind under his wiper, complimenting the massive dent-gash on the driver side. <\/p>\n

I consider that the driver probably doesn’t pay much attention to …much. I start the Speculative Bitter Machine in my head and wonder if the driver’s life is full of mea culpas and “Its not my faults”. I imagine him getting out of a parking ticket in front of a judge by feigning a diabetic faint. Or not paying his taxes. Or kicking a puppy.<\/p>\n

I look up from the gash to see who I’m judging: a man with his finger two knuckles deep into his nose. His dark eyes wander from the dash over to where I’m standing. Our eyes lock. His finger exits his nose hole. He wipes his hair with same hand. Our eyes are still locked in this briefest of moments.<\/p>\n

I can’t contain my disgust. Coupled with the fact that I’ve pre-judged him as being lazy and ignorant, I feel the need to comment. <\/p>\n

I American Slow Clap, also known as The Golf Clap<\/del>*. That is, to clap slowly, sarcastically, steadily and loudly, while tilting your head in such a manner that says “Really? Honestly? …really?!” SharkBoy and I call it American Slow Clap because we kept on seeing it in movies where Villains do it just after the Hero expositions his plan to overcome said Villain. <\/p>\n

The driver sees me. “Fuck off!” he yells out his (partially closed) window at me.<\/p>\n