SATIRE

I Can Finally Call Her a Twat

The wait is over

Definitely a confetti moment. Photo by Clay Banks on Unsplash

The heavy rain slapped the top of my head and rolled down my forehead. I winced at its attack. Maybe if I hadn’t tweezed my eyebrows off as a teenager, they would have stopped the rainwater from filling my eyes.

“Sammy!” I yelled, tugging on the leash.

He trotted behind me, taking his time as the surprise rainstorm ravaged our coatless bodies.

I upgraded my march to a run as we neared our house, pulling the dog along behind me, when her car came tearing around the corner up ahead. The silver SUV tore through the puddles and accelerated towards us.

“Fucking Cruella,” I shouted into the rain as I ran back to Sammy and tugged on his harness.

Mud splattered my leggings as we stumbled into the grass at the side of the road. I turned to look at the car as it pulled into the farmyard, making our splash in the swampy grass unnecessary.

I let out a cry in frustration and cursed the pissing clouds above.

Opposite my house is a small farm. The owner of the farm rents out the barns to horsey bastards to house their horses. There are two entrances to the horse barns — one right before my house and one thirty feet past my house. Most of the horsey fucks use their indicator to let the world know if they intend on using the first entrance. Not SUV Bitch.

She doesn’t feel the need for indicators. On multiple occasions I have unnecessarily moved out of the road when I’ve been walking my dog, walking with my child, and driving my car, just for her to swing into the first entrance, ignoring my existence.

I would like to inform her that she is a twat. I haven’t because I don’t have the balls and because she’s a police officer. And I’m pretty sure that saying the word “twat” gets you eight years in the clink. So, I keep calm by imagining her horse biting her.

She wears a police jacket while she rides her horse and waves her arms frantically to direct traffic on the streets around my home. I’ve driven past her many times as she scowled at me and the other drivers, offering us an aggressive stop hand signal if we drove anything over 5 mph.

She’s super chill.

Not once has she thanked me for slowing down.

The twat wears a jacket very similar to this. Image from Police LW Summer Stretch Jacket | Chequered| Keela Police/Security Range

“Come on,” I said to Sammy as he inspected another fascinating patch of grass yesterday morning.

I reached into my coat pocket, pulled out my phone, and groaned at the time on the screen.

“Let’s go,” I said, giving his leash a tug.

He didn’t move. Exhaling, I looked up to the sky as my mind cycled through everything I had to do that morning when a voice interrupted my thoughts.

“Excuse me.”

I already knew who it was from the annoyed tone.

My eyes found the SUV bitch sitting upon her horse. The horse padded silently along the grass, not alerting me to their arrival.

“Excuse me,” she repeated in the same tone as she instructed the horse to stop.

What? I’m already on the side of the road. What do you want me to do? Scale the wall of my neighbor’s garden? Or dig a fucking trench to conceal myself in?

I pulled Sammy towards me.

“Sit,” I said, pointing to the grass.

He reached up to lick my face.

“Sit,” I repeated.

He stared at me for a moment before turning his back on me to lick the grass.

So, we’re never going to have a day without fuckery?

Officer Horsey Fuck cleared her throat.

Would you like some water? A lemon sherbet? A karate chop to the gullet?

I looked up at her, forgetting to turn off my facial expressions. Raising my eyebrows, I gave her a deadpan stare as I pushed Sammy’s butt to the ground.

“Stay,” I said as I grabbed his harness.

Or chase her. Whatever works for you.

Her lips curled up as she looked away from me. The horse began to move forward as she angled her nose to the sky.

As I waited for the horse to move past, my eyes scanned her pristine boots, tartan-patterned gloves, and her short silver hair, poking out from under her sleek, black helmet.

Then I saw it.

My mouth fell open.

I stared at the back of her police jacket. The C wasn’t a C at all. It was a T.

It said, “POLITE”. Not “POLICE”.

What in the actual fuck is this sorcery? Is she impersonating an officer?

I’m telling.

Kick her. Kick her now.

Polite? Fucking polite? The audacity! The twat can’t use an indicator, never says thank you, and directs everyone around. And yet she’s telling everyone else to be polite?

My feet froze to the ground as the rest of my body rocked side to side, trying to contain my outrage.

I’m going to sue her. Or throw fistfuls of grass on her SUV. Maybe kick the air a little.

Sammy stood up and began trotting in the direction of our house. I dropped the end of the leash, letting him go. Nothing made sense anymore.

I shook my fists above my head and then dropped them quickly, remembering I was in public. Then I ran home, screaming.

When I got home, I hit up the World Wide Web for assistance in suing the fuckstick. And I found this.

This is what she was wearing. Image from Equisafety Polite Inverno Reversible Jacket — Hucklesbys Associates

Apparently, these jackets are a thing. A thing for twats.

Judging by eBay, they’re quite popular among horse riders and cyclists. I should probably start paying more attention to the world around me. Or just continue to walk around in a daydream.

On the bright side, now I know she’s not a police officer I can tell her she’s a twat.

Maybe I’ll just write her a note.