And then he ordered the cake.

If I am honest, there are lots of things in life that just down right shit me off. To tears. Some are fair enough, like bullying, rudeness, backstabbing and two-facedness (I may have just made that word up). And then, there are things that are trivial and petty that I have somewhat irrational feelings of anger when I'm exposed to them. 

Some examples include the use of the phrase 'nom nom nom' when something tastes good. It makes me skin crawl and I can not help being reminded of a fat man eating with his mouth open and dripping food onto his shirt. Irrational, I know. But it angers me. 

I also hate it when people change lanes when driving and forget to turn their indicators off. They drive kilometers down the road and by the time they realise and rectify the situation, I am almost certifiably insane with rage! And honestly, how ridiculous is that? Of all the things that could anger me. 

And then, there are these members of society.

 

Bike riders. In spandex. 

But people, not the professional bike riders in spandex who take part in registered and worthy events like the Santos Tour Down Under - why would they bother me? I don't see them.

Because I hibernate on those days so that it doesn't' become Homicide Down Under.

No. It's the hobby bike riders on a sunday - wearing spandex. The hobby riders that take up the entire road riding in tandem, chatting, that make me want to mow them down and then laugh loudly like a maniac and scream "Serves you right!".

I mean, why? WHY? Do they wear spandex? Without sponsor advertisements ironed on to the spandex so that we are forced to see the meat and two veg mashed rudely on to the bike seat. Do you know why they don't have sponsors? Because the aren't professionals. They aren't good enough to be. It's a hobby. 

I just threw up in my mouth.

Some even shave their legs. Yet, apparently they aren't losers. Why is this so? And why do they get so angry when your car comes within inches of their bikes even though you are driving on the wrong side of the road, bound for a head on collision with a semi-trailer, all because they are too good and 'professional' to use the bike lane? 

Or move over, god forbid.

Yet I'm the asshole because I tried to stay on the right side of the road?

Honestly, I would just drive in the lane and make them move at the last second, only I'm scared they'll hunt me down (because surely if they are professionals, in spandex, they can ride at 60ks per hour, can't they?), drag me from the car and pummel me to death with their helmets, whilst blinding me with their fluro strips and assault me with their protruding sausage and spuds in the pants region, and then ride off into the distant on their padded bums, while my life drains away. 

Assaulted, by the peloton.

Then, on sunday. The anger became fury, and I'll never be the same again. It involved food.

First mistake.

My sister (who is 32 weeks pregnant) and I went to the eastern burbs to a market, and upon leaving decided to enter a cafe for some coffee and cake. Not too much to ask, I wouldn't have thought.

But people. It was spandex country. Everywhere. Padded bums on seats and two fried eggs and a sausage, tightly packed. Everywhere. And they were in the cafe. I went to order our coffee and drinks, my sister requesting the orange cake - gluten free (which means not much for us but hey, no gluten has to be good for the 'stines sometimes). I stood in line, staring through the glass window into the cake fridge, feeling excited about tasting the magnificent looking orange cake. The large, thickly cut and (dare I say) moist looking cake. Heaven on a plate.

I'll never know.

In front of me were the Spandex's. Two of them, conversing in their tongue. They were ordering for their crew who were sitting on the tables outside, obviously patting each other on the backs for their totally awesome ride that morning. The spandex's were up, they began ordering. 

Five lattes. Two hot chocolates. Seven pieces of orange cake.

Cue inner choking and inner rage. 

SEVEN PEICES OF ORANGE CAKE.

Guess how many slices there were?.

Seven.

In a blind panic and rage, I hailed Sarah over from our table - across the cafe - and informed her through tears of rage that the two 'men' in front of me just ordered the last of the orange cake. She almost cried. She's pregnant, she wanted orange cake. I couldn't deliver.

Cue fist clenching, jaw locking fury. 

One of the pelicans turned around and said, laughing, 'Oh, ha, sorry about that'.

To which I responded (in my head). No worries. No that's fine. You take the road, flash us all your junk, abuse us when we follow road rules, take up all the tables, abandon your families while you live your hobby life, ruin spandex for everyone and eat my cake. Nah you're cool mate. I'll just remember to remind Jesus next time I'm talking to him that someone else has taken over his position as God.

In real life I responded:

'That's ok. You just took cake from a pregnant woman'. And he flinched a bit, because their was hate blood seeping from my eyes. I was, at that point, certifiably insane with rage.

And now because of that group of seven bike riders, I will never recover - and I'll never move over on the road again.

Those little fuckers took my cake.