Spitting in the Diamond Lane

I try not to even look, but I can't help it sometimes. Stuck in rush
hour traffic watching the singles stealing down the diamond lane.
Hey, it's really none of my business. Maybe they have a baby in the
trunk, I don't know.

But then all the traffic slows down to a crawl that would embarass a
healthy snail. And there's that young guy, alone, in his expensive
car in the lane just to my right. I don't have an raw egg to chuck at
him. Or the time to take a tire iron to his tail lights... But it
occurs to me, rather than flip him off I'l hock a lugee. I'll work up
more mucous than a dozen aforementioned snails, from parts of my
sinus not exposed to air since the Carter administration, and spit
and blood and whatever's left from lunch and splatter his window. No
permanent damage, but point made, Point Made.

But before I can work up the spit (and courage) the traffic moves
again... and I realize, slowly, that the diamond lane must have ended
miles back. I swallow my pride (and my spit). Next time I'll just
wear blinders.