Nice 'vette

There are times when the right come-back escapes you. You think of it an hour later or a day later or even a week later. Then it's too late.

So it was when a little snot on a bicycle shouted out "nice vette" when I pulled in for gas at the self-serve between Clinton and Harriston one night. I knew it was a diss. I just didn't know how to respond.

I was driving a Chevy Chevette. Probably one of the lamest cars GM ever put their moniker on. No wonder the Japanese took us to the cleaners in the small car department.

One of the most humiliating moments in my Chevette occurred at the lights in Teviotdale. I'm heading south, delivering my children back to the tender mercies of their mother in Guelph after a "daddy weekend." There's a transport truck in the main lane stopped at the lights, three or four cars behind it. I figure I'll just pull up alongside in the right-turn lane, and when the light goes green I'll sprint across the intersection in front of that transport.

Light turns green, and godamn it, if that transport doesn't beat me across the intersection. I'm forced onto the gravel shoulder. Then of course the three or four cars that were behind the transport pass me too.

Luckily my children were too young to fully appreciate the extent of my humiliation. The dad who had piloted 150 mph supercars was beaten across an intersection by a ten year old Kenworth pulling a set of trains.

So a few days after that diss from the little shit on the bicycle, I came up with the perfect rejoinder.

Nice Harley, kid.