On the road with Mr. Asshole McDickpants

I'm a bit shaken up. At the Porter Square intersection, there are two going-straight lanes, a right-turn lane, and a bike lane sandwiched between them. An angry man in a tan SUV who found himself straddling the bike lane attempted to change lanes into me as I passed him on the right. When I yelled, "Hey, watch out!" his response was to scowl, accelerate his lane-change, and fender-bump me into the curb. Incredulous, I half-fell onto the sidewalk; he zoomed off and zipped right onto Somerville.

I am charged up with ill fantasies of finding his SUV parked on the street and smashing all his windows and lights. But even in fantasy-land I know I would find it more satisfying and more productive to leave a note saying, "Hey, I could've smashed all your windows and lights, but didn't. Be nicer to cyclists, Mr. Asshole McDickpants." Neither is possible, but I take satisfaction in knowing that he's probably as shaken up as I am, now that his adrenaline has worn off.