My Honda needs a fog horn
or a train whistle—
maybe even a bicycle bell would be bigger than this disgraceful pathetic ting of a Honda horn.
The stupid car is coming in my lane,
indifferent to my presence,
unresponsive to my racing pulse, my clenching fists. –> –> I brake.
He does nothing but continue on his death trajectory—
my death trajectory!
By one skinny, rasping breath in my heaving chest he misses me.
I honk! TWICE!
Well, kind of.
It’s more like sticking your tongue out than a fearsome you-almost-killed-me honk.
It’s more like a have-a-nice-day kind of honk than a disdaining what-are-you-thinking kind of honk.
My Honda needs a manly honk that expresses appropriate scorn in appropriate situations
and adequately challenges the concept that the driver may have any brain cells.
So I’m writing the dealership.
I need an upgrade,
a volume boost,
a rough, fully orbed textured sound standing by to put miscreants in their place,
which hopefully will be on their own side of the road!