As I tried to maneuver my car through an icy, snowy supermarket parking lot recently in search of a space, I found myself face to face with a pickup sporting the largest plow I've ever seen on such a small truck. It was one of those humongous v-shaped contraptions that hopes to become a turnpike plow when it grows up.
We both stopped dead because neither of us could move forward. I waited for "plow envy" to back up, but he didn't. He waited for me to back up, but I didn't. After a few seconds of this, I decided the standoff was a waste of time, so I shifted into reverse. But I couldn't move because there was a car right behind me, waiting for me to get out of his way.
At this point, I did the only thing I could do, short of getting out of my car and starting a shouting match that might have left me dead on the pavement with multiple gunshot wounds. I pulled behind a line of cars already parked in the fire lane in front of the supermarket. I did so just long enough to let "plow envy" pass me by, which he did with mere inches to spare. That's when he rolled down his window and yelled at me . . . for parking in the fire line.
I've always said there are few creatures more dangerous than a crazed, testosterone-fueled guy on a mission in the cab of a pickup equipped with a plow, especially if the truck has one of those small, cheesy, removable flashing lights on the roof that looks like it belongs on a kiddie car.
The proof is out there.
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