When it comes to fueling for a run, I have a finicky digestive system. If I don’t eat enough, I bonk. “Bonking” is a highly technical running term, meaning a sudden, overwhelming feces-like feeling due to lack of food. One time I was several kilometres from home and bonked while running in Nose Hill Park, but then came across three young lady hikers, all of whom had backpacks. Embarrassed yet desperate, I explained my dilemma and asked if they had any food in their packs.

They were understanding, and gave me a homemade chocolate chip muffin. It was yummy, and it got me home. Another time on the west coast I was saved from a bonk by a roadside blackberry bush, although it did cost me a few scratches.

Conversely, if I eat too much before a run I need to poo. Sometimes I rather desperately need to make fudge. For me, there is a fine balance between bonking and crapping, which is why I run routes that have bathrooms.

Enough about my digestive issues for a moment; let’s discuss the fucktard in the Camry.

I was 3km into a run and heading with only moderate desperation towards a bathroom that I knew was a block away. I’d played the pre-run fueling balancing act and ended up a little too positive.

I came up to a light and had the walk signal so I kept on running. At the same time some dipshit was driving his Toyota in the opposite direction and making a left turn (for him) across the traffic and decided to race it through a small gap in the oncoming traffic.

He almost hit me, but slammed on the brakes and stopped mere inches from my legs. Of course, this practically scared the rapidly forthcoming shit out of me. Then he laid on his horn with one hand and waved the other hand in the air in a what-the-fuck fashion.

Before I proceed with the story I want to explain something. Usually I’m a pretty even-tempered guy. It’s been a quarter-century since I last punched someone in the face, even though there have been a few times during that period that I was confronted by someone who seriously deserved it. I’m not the type of guy who seeks out violence, preferring to use more rational methods of interacting with my fellow humans.

In this situation, however, I had undeniable righteousness on my side in the form of the walk signal. There was no question that Camry driver was in the wrong. Not only was he in the wrong, but he had the audacity to behave like this situation was all my fault.

My response to the situation was to completely fucking lose it in a Chernobyl-like spewing of profanity akin to the writing of a reptard story.

He actually had the decency to roll down his window so he could hear my Al-Pacino-In-Scarface-like diatribe. If he had been stupid enough to get out of his car, I’m certain my first reaction would have been to punch him; perhaps more than once.

But he stayed in his car, and when I ceased swearing long enough to allow him to get a word in, he yelled back with “What’s your fucking problem?”

“I’ve got the motherfucking light you dumbshit cocksucking assbag!”

He started to drive away and I slammed the heel of my hand into the back panel of his car; not doing any damage but hopefully getting my point across as to the level of my displeasure, and then I finished crossing the intersection before the signal expired.

Again, because of the undeniable righteousness of my anger, I found that my temper returned to normal in short order. A moment later I was at the aforementioned bathroom and realized that I no longer needed to crap.

That’s the lesson here: if you feel like you’re about to shit your pants, then find something to get really pissed off about. It works better than Imodium.

It was another 24 hours before anything moved down there, and even then it took a couple cups of coffee.