Patron saint for all those fortysomething men who feel grossly outnumbered and persecuted by (a) cyclists; (b) pedestrians; (c) drivers of Toyotas; (d) speed cameras; (e) those who make unflattering comments about tight jeans on men over forty, except they haven’t been able to put it in proper sentences until now.
No one else has articulated the male mid-life crisis with such wit and confidence in its need to turn every road into an open Utah salt pan test run with Bob Seger’s Night Moves as road anthem of choice. Those close to you are usually loath to say anything, however, in case you go and attack their family runabout or something.
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