On Sunday night, before going to Britt's for Thanksgiving III, I stopped at Albertson's to pick up dessert. As I walked out of the store, starting to cross the road to get to where I had parked my car, this Jeep, going about 60, pulled up the crosswalk, tapped his brakes, and then floored it by me. If I hadn't been paying attention, I might have been hit. In fact, if it wasn't me, but a mother with a couple of kids, one of those kids would have been launched about thirty feet in the air.

The Jeep passed by close enough that I could feel it passing by. So I did what any person who likes to teach lessons to others would do. I smacked the rear right panel of his car as he sped past me, leaving an indentation.

I walked over to my car as the Richard Petty wannabe (we'll call him Chickenfucker Nutsack) squealed his tires as he turned around, and drove down the parallel lane, parking his car so he could face mine as I started to get in.

I was surprised that Chickenfucker Nutsack wasn't some 18-year old punk but a guy in his 40s, balding, pale, with thick glasses and a quivering face, wearing an Albertson's shirt. Chickenfucker looked like he was about to burst into tears from anger.

He rolled down the window and yelled, "Fuck you, jerk!"

I walked over to the front of his car and said calmly, "Maybe you should slow down when you're driving through a parking lot."

Chickenfucker's reply? "Maybe you shouldn't be so fat!"

I immediately busted out laughing. Tears were streaming down my face as I tried to stammer out a response in a properly patronizing tone. "Are you retarded? Special? You're special, aren't you? Who's in charge of you? Do we need to call someone to take care of you?" I made it sound like I was talking to a baby, in a very soothing, condescending tone.

He gave me the finger. But not The Finger, like someone who does it casually. Chickenfucker actually had to think about it, and then balled his hand up in a fist and extended his middle finger as if he had never done it before. Then he started to get out of the car. This big Samoan dude who had been watching the whole thing from his car started walking to the store. As he passed between our cars, he said to Chickenfucker, in this deep, gravelly voice, "I wouldn't do that, man. I don't think that's a very good idea." He reconsidered and got back in his car. I started mine up and was about to reverse out of the space, when he whipped around the parking lot and drove behind me, essentially blocking me in.

Well, you know what bumpers are for, right? Bumping.

I pulled out of the parking space slowly until my bumper was about an inch from his. Then I revved the motor a bit. Chickenfucker stood still. So I backed up into the front bumper of his car. The look of horror in his eyes was priceless. Frantically, he began to back up down the aisle. I continued in reverse and followed him all the way until he couldn't go any further without driving into traffic backwards. Then I drove my rear bumper into his front bumper again, very gently, shifted the car into drive, and drove off.

Having fun at Chickenfucker's expense brought a smile to my face, but when I told my wife, she blamed me for the whole thing! She said, "Why do you always have to teach people lessons? What if that guy had a gun?"

"Sweetie, you know I'm a ninja. Ninjas can dodge bullets without even trying!"

This didn't soothe her at all. "You are not allowed to teach lessons like that anymore!"

"But, babe!" I pleaded. "This is way better than me being a real teacher. I'm like a super professor of life lessons, with a PhD of The Streets! Plus I'm a ninja. Kapow!"

"No. More. Lessons."

So I said, "Well, think of it this way, babe. If the guy did have a gun, I'd either get a really cool scar, or you'd inherit over a million dollars in life insurance, plus you could sue the guy and make even more money!"

"Carry on, Professor Avitable."