When I was at the stoplight and I looked over at you, enclosed in your car doors and glass windows and heated seats, did you not think I could hear what was going on inside? You had a boogie in your nose, by the way. I saw you pick it. You're kind of gross.
But after you finished flicking that little green glob to the floor I saw you bob your head to that really girly song on the radio. Yeah, the one with the high falsetto towards the end that sounds like the screeching of tires against a urethra. That guy from that old boy band sings it. Jason? Jared? Paul? I don't remember his name. But I'm sure you do.
The dance moves you managed from the driver's seat are actually commendable. How you pulled off the running man from a seated position I may never know, but one thing that I do know is this: no one cabbage patches to a funky pop song and gets away with it. Not on my watch.
You obviously would have been embarrassed had you looked over to the car sitting next to you while you exhaled that super-girly crescendo. Because you would have seen me flagrantly mocking you. Although, to be fair, if someone else had pulled up to the right of me at that stop light and seen me mocking you they would have had no idea that I was actually mocking you and presumed that I was simply embarassing myself in the same way that you were and possibly caused them to start mocking me, which would have then caused a weird sort of chain-mocking situation at the intersection of Johnson and Park. You wouldn't have seen it on the news or anything, but it would have been a pretty rare occurence nonetheless.
You try to fool the world with those really hip band stickers haphazardly placed all over your windshield. Logos of fish and eyeballs and fire spelling out the name of that Finnish heavy metal band that you "like" so much. Right. Your fuzzy beard and fashionably-ragged threads can't cover the fact that you shimmied around to a girly pop song in your car. You sir, are a fake. And a coward.
Roll those windows down, my good man. Don't be afraid to showcase your ability to mime the heights of your changing notes with your hands. Don't hide behind a fedora and a stack of Paste magazines. Let your inner pop-nerd out to play for a while. I won't judge you. At least, not the way that I am now.
I guess what I'm trying to say, Guy In '98 Subaru Hatchback, is be yourself. Do the hussle. Sing those high notes. Make kissy faces at the rearview mirror. But let the world see it.