Last night I pulled up next to a Mustang. In it sat a 30-something asshole revving its engine to a high-pitched squeal while he snarfed a hamburger behind the wheel. Looking at it all, I understood that in his mind he views the custom red pinstripes snaking across the bright yellow car as a visual metaphor for how inherently daring, dangerous, and downright awesome he is. Revving the engine was his way of expressing this, and as he angrily bit into the cow on a bun, it occurred to me that he saw himself as some sort of savage neo-hunter/warrior, who, having just tracked down his prey (“I’d like a #3 with a Coke.”) at the drive-through, was feeling extra tough right about then, prowling around his concrete jungle. Clearly, he was in dire need of a nice, crisp bitch slap or twenty, to jolt him back to reality, but the light turned green and I was forced to resort to an alternate form of violence. In the blink of an eye I snatched my half empty bottle of Muscle Milk from the cup holder, took aim, and launched it at his head -which it hit. No more revving. No more burger. No more awesome. Just a bewildered, fear-injected man-child, screaming obscenities while trying to figure out why he’s stalled out at a stoplight, dripping with banana-flavored protein shake.