You're not my real dad.

Recently I was riding my bike in The Arboretum, a local nature preserve. A car behind me honked, so I rode closer to the shoulder.

This SUV pulls alongside me with its window rolled down. Its a middle-aged guy with a handicap parking placard on his mirror. He's shouting something about how I should keep my hands on the handle bars and do some other shit that was unintelligible.

"What did you say?"

"Put your hands on the handle bars!"

"What?"

"Put your hands on the handle bars!"

The thing is, in order to give me these safety instructions, the guy is driving on the wrong side of the street. He has completely crossed the yellow line and he's not even looking at the road because he's too busy yelling at me.  So I start yelling back.

"Drive on the right side of the road!"

"What?"

"You're driving on the wrong side of the road! There's a blind curve coming up, you can't see if there's cars coming!"

The guy sped off without saying anything. This was a pretty great moment for me, much better than the typical "Fuck You" or "Jerk Store". But now, having had time to compose my thoughts, I realize what I should have said.

"Are you retarded or is that placard for the person you're fucking."