My first car was a 1969 Volkswagen Beetle. The chirpy "meep-meep" sound of such a horn was not an effective way to communicate rage toward other drivers. A honk that should have been interpreted as "Get the Hell Out of My Way Asshole" was often mistaken for "Cheerio old lad, pleasant day, shant we say?"
My second car was also a VW Bug. This horn worked just fine for a while, then something caused the horn to take on the sound of a dying cow, a sound which is also less than desirable when trying to communicate rage toward other drivers.
My third car was a 1982 Ford Escort. The horn was not in the middle of the steering wheel where God rightfully intended it to be, but rather it was built into the turn signal lever sticking out from the left side of the steering column. If I wanted to honk my horn, I had to press the lever in with my left hand, a most unnatural act for any angry homo ((((wait for it)))) sapian such as myself. This left-handed-pressing-in-a-lever maneuver is scarcely conducive to the proper expression of road rage.
When I moved to Albuquerque my Escort died a sudden death. Some friends and I stood in the driveway in a semi-circle around my dead car with the hood up, drinking Coronas with lime and trying to discern the cause of its death. "Looks like it blew a head gasket", a most unreliable hippie couch surfer surmised. I saw the grim reaper in my peripheral vision nod in agreement. I lost all hope and put a "For Sale Sign" in the window.
This lead to a case of yard rage.
A Mexican kid down the street bought my Escort with the queer horn for seventy-five bucks. I watched him push it off into the sunset. The next morning I stood dumbfounded on my front lawn as he drove it down the street, honking and waving as he passed by. It was as if God himself was flipping me the bird.
I was forced to get by on a bike alone. My yard rage subsided but my road rage did not.
In New Mexico, my road rage was mostly geared toward loose dogs who chased me mercilessly and nipped at my ankles while I panic-pedalled as fast as I could to get away. It was a daily ritual. Oh, and it never rains in the desert, right? Wrong. It poured like a Mother the day I had a job interview.
When I moved to Chico my car-less days spread into the next four years. The road rage raged on and despite all my rage I was still just....an underpaid white chick trying to get by. (What did you think I was gonna say?)
After four years of bike hell, God had mercy on me and I acquired an automobile [insert angelic hymn] with a non-working horn [insert flat tuba sound].
I'm marked. I'm destined to never experience the satisfaction of blaring my horn at the numerous bitches, hoes and jackasses who piss me off.