So I'm walking down Broadway to get to Borders so I can buy "Programming Perl 5" because Sarah just quit and she's the only person on the planet who knows how to work the old invoicing system, which is an evil mish-mash of legacy systems and black magic and I'm just a little stressed out because I have to have the new version done before she leaves and still keep working on the release for the end of February and I'm in no mood to deal with sports-car-driving, cell-phoning, hair-gelling Yuppie scum.

Suddenly, as I approach an alley that empties onto the street, a Porsche zooms out, it's well-coifed owner talking on one of those infinitely small cellular phones. He's obviously not paying any attention to anything but his call and I can barely pull back in time to avoid getting knocked down by his shiny white car.

"Get off the phone!" I bellow after him, in one of those pathetic little stabs at civic responsibility that's just about the only thing you can do to the back side of a receding car.

But he stops. He's pulled out onto the street, parallel with the sidewalk, and he rolls down his window and covers the mouthpiece of the cellular with his free hand. "Outta my way, fat boy!" he yells and then uncovers the phone to raise his middle finger at me. He slams the car into gear and races off.

And has to stop thirty feet up the road because the light is red.

His window is still open, and I catch him off-guard. I stick my face inside his car and stab my fat-boy finger at him and say:

"Look, pal. If you're not going to pay attention to where you're going, get off the damned road. You're a menace and an asshole."

His face contorts in anger and he opens his mouth to respond, and in the split second before he can force some obscenity out his yap, he notices he's still on the phone and it's just transmitted my opinion of him to some stock broker or business partner or boss.

"Uh," he says.

And I turn around and walk away.