I think the very first thing most people notice about me is that I'm friggin' huge.

I'm 6' 3", somewhere between 275 lbs and 290 lbs depending on the day and how much sweet tea I've had to drink. Despite this, however, most people don't really see me as weighing in at near NFL Lineman status... They see me as being about 240 or 250. I hide my weight well... Except that I hide it in places that still make me look fat. But that's fine.

The reason I bring this up is because, upon noticing my size, most people admit that at some point or another - at least initially - they are intimidated by me, physically.

Now, within 45 seconds of striking up a conversation with me, it won't matter how much bigger you might have thought I was or how strong I might be, you're usually put at ease by the fact that I am a complete and utter buffoon. I try my best to make at least one joke within the first sentence I share with anyone I meet for the first time, and this usually makes people cool and at peace with me.

Unless you've somehow pissed me off in traffic. Then, my first sentence shared with you usually contains multiple conjugations of the word "Fuck," manipulated in such a way that the past, present, perfect-present and future tense of the noun, verb, participle, prepositional and adjective versions of that word all make some sort of appearance before the first full-stop punctuation mark (usually an exclamation point).

Case in point - my commute into the city this morning.

I was driving along merrily at about 55 miles an hour, singing along to instrumental music by heavyweights Explosions in the Sky (I make up my own words), when without warning, a woman decided to pull out of the emergency lane - from a full stop - and into my lane, with about, oh, 10 car lengths distance between us.

Now, 10 car lengths sounds like a lot. But when you're doing 55 and they're doing slightly better than 0, it disappears REALLY fast - so fast, in fact, that you cannot make a full stop before hitting the other person without drastically swerving into another lane or suddenly enabling your VTOL engines and flying over the fucker.

I only have the base, factory-stock model of my particular make of truck, so I don't have those. I opted to swerve into the emergency lane instead.

When my heart was able to be swallowed back down out of my throat, I unlocked my jaw and took a deep breath to find that the fucking retarded lady had swerved BACK into the emergency lane ahead of me. She got out of her car and began marching back to my truck, yelling and screaming something about watching out for traffic and whatnot.

Now, I just cannot understand how a woman would find it to be a good idea to get out of her car in a major city and approach a large truck with a man driving behind the wheel, especially after being a fucking idiot like she was. But she did. And so, I got out of the car and verbally let her have it with both barrels.

I got into my third instance of my favorite word, somehow turning it into a pronoun, when she panicked, turned and headed back to her car. I kinda smirked, feeling proud of myself for defending my NOT SLAMMING INTO THE BACK OF HER CAR pretty successfully. I don't like to yell, and I especially don't like to yell at women, but yelling at women who just pulled a bonehead move and then have the unmitigated gall to get out of their vehicle and blame ME? Well... That's just the sort of thing I actually do enjoy yelling about.

I noticed she was getting on the phone as I pulled out of the emergency lane and onto the highway, but I only took that notice because I was turning to flip her off. I didn't really pay much mind to who it was she may have been calling or why - seeing a woman on a cellphone in a car in Atlanta isn't exactly that notable an event. But maybe I should have thought about it a second... If I had, I might have exited way earlier and stopped for a coffee, or perhaps turned into my sister's office complex and visited for a moment... Anything to get the fuck off the road, because there was really only one reason why she'd hop immediately on the phone after I'd verbally accosted her.

Bitch called the cops.

So, I'm no more than 100 yards from my destination exit when I get pulled over by an Atlanta police officer. She'd taken my licence number, reported me for attempting to run her off the road and physically threatening her, and added that I may have had a weapon in my hand.

These are not the sorts of things that the police will just let you explain your way out of. Not to say I didn't try... But it did no good.

So my morning was spent dealing with what ended up being three Atlanta Police Department cops, one Fulton County Sheriff, one Georgia State Patrol officer and a rather angry project manager who wasn't too thrilled about my being about 4 hours late for a meeting this morning. But hey, on the bright side, I got to visit the pokey.

I got right out after explaining the entire thing with absolutely no rebuttal from the woman who failed to answer her cellphone through four separate attempts to reach her. The charges were dropped almost immediately and I was sent on my way.

I asked them for her cell number, but they wouldn't give it to me. They did, however, laugh at my version of the story when I told it. They didn't find me threatening at all. But then again, we weren't actually in traffic when we met.