Nothing in my power can stop the high school boys in my neighborhood from hooting at me out the windows of their cars.
I am fat and slightly old. They are young and stupid.
So they hoot. It is what they have done since time immemorial.
I imagine that Ice Age adolescents, hitching foolish rides on wayward mammoths, leered and grunted insultingly at the dumpy women of their tribes as these same women stooped and grasped for berries.
Well, it wasn't berries I was stooping for the other day as I stood on the corner while walking the pup. See, Pip had done his secondary business a bit too near to someone's yard, so at the very moment I heard the hooting, I was using a stick to flick poop into the gutter in the interest of being a marginally good neighbor (i.e. at least it's not on your grass).
So it's good that I am a whisper above the dirty apes. Because it did occur to me that some hurled dogshit smacking against the windshield, or with any luck flying into the open passenger window, would immediately redirect any defamation being flung my way. To complete the devolution, I could have jumped up and down afterward, screeching "oo!! oo!! aa! aa!" the way the cartoon monkeys do.
However, y'all can rest easy knowing that I merely entertained notions of such primitive vengeance, and that none of them bubbled onto the prime material plane.
I've said it before and I'll say it again: the wide chasm between thought and action preserves my fool hide daily.
That art is Aubrey Beardsley's, by the way.