I was cruising with the windows down in the middle lane of I-10, headed toward downtown New Orleans, when two cars simultaneously zoomed by either side of me. The incident shook me up a little bit, because I started to swerve and then was nearly clipped by an 18-wheeler.

I put the pedal to the floor and tried to join the race. The car in the right lane pulled off at the very next exit, so I tailed the other car, a silver Mazda 3.

My little red pickup caught up with the Mazda, and I decided to have a little fun with this douche that nearly got me killed minutes earlier. I was right on this car’s ass at 80 mph.

He slowed down and got into the right lane to let me pass. I slowed down, too, and got back on his ass in the right lane.

All of a sudden, there was a spray of liquid across my windshield. A drop or two came into the window. It was beer. This motherf–ker threw a beer at my truck.

Then the car swerved to the left and slowed down as the passenger cocked back and launched another bottle at me. This time it was a water bottle, and it came through my window and landed in my passenger seat (true story … as always).

Wow! What a throw! This guy landed a full water bottle in my truck from 20 feet away at 60 or 70 mph. Great shot, homo!

The driver turned out to be a woman, and I could see the male passenger jerking on the steering wheel, trying to force my truck off the road. He signaled for me to pull to the shoulder so we could settle this dispute like gentlemen (in fisticuffs on the side of the interstate was my assumption).

I pulled over to the shoulder and put my emergency lights on, looked in the rearview mirror, and waited. After about 30 seconds, I got out of my truck.

On a side note: I’m only five foot six, 150 lbs. I don’t have a “Napoleon Complex” or anything like that. I’m actually a very peaceful person, but sometimes I get that edge, that rage, kind of like the Incredible Hulk. I love to feel that rush of adrenaline. I live for it.

I once rear-naked-choked a guy in a bar for playing America’s “Horse With No Name” on the jukebox. He refused to tap out and went unconscious for about 45 seconds. Probably one of the most violent acts I’ve committed in my life. I warned him not to play that song, but that’s another story…

Anyway, I waited to see if Captain D-bag was going to emerge from his car. After about a minute of standoff time, I said, “F–k it! It’s on.” I jumped out of my truck with his water bottle in hand, my long hair pulled back under my backward baseball cap, and my short, stout body ready to live.

Captain D stepped out and walked toward me. He looked like a 40-year-old man dressed in a 20-year-old kid’s outfit (an Ed Hardy T and tight boy-band jeans.)

I smirked out loud at this a–hole. All this time I thought he was a douche bag, and it turns out he was.

So there I was, a 25-year-old man, sticking my chin out, begging this juvenile trapped in a 40-year-old body to hit me. All of this was happening on the shoulder of I-10.

“If you were a n–gger or weren’t so small, I’d rip your f–king head off, you little punk!” This guy was screaming two inches from my face.

I casually leaned back against my truck and said, “Really? If I were a ‘N–GGER,’ you would’ve killed me? I’m so sorry, man. You are either really racist or really stupid. You threw bottles at my car, ran me off the road, and now you’re in MY face.”

Then, after saying these thoughts out loud, I snapped. “You know what? Hit me, you f–king piece of sh–t! I’m begging you. Hit me! HIT ME, PUSSY! AHH!”

I had that crazy look in my eye, that “rage.” At this point, I was the Hulk. “Ahh! Do something, you cock-sucking, dick-licking, roided-up, elderly prick!” I screamed back. “Do it! Hit me!”

I stuck my chin out and slapped myself across the face. “Bring the pain, the fury. Bring it! Ahh!”

He stepped back. “You’re lucky you’re so small. Man, you’d be dead by now if you weren’t so small.” He restrained himself.

He was stunned, such a small guy with such a big pair of balls. “You must be a black belt or something, right? What’s your deal? Seriously…”

Truth be told, I hadn’t smoked a piece of weed all day. I hadn’t had a sip of alcohol all day. I hadn’t ripped any coke or banged any smack all day. I was naturally WILD. “AHH!”

It was two in the morning, and this guy was apologizing to me on the side of the interstate. “Man, I’ve got four kids at home, and I’ve just got so much to lose.”

“Wow! Four kids, huh? What the f–k are you doing out on the road drunk, picking fights on the side of the highway at 2 a.m.? Go home and take care of your kids, you racist faggot!”

Finally, his female driver got out of the car and walked up to us. “What the hell is your problem?” she said to me.

“And you … what the f–k is your problem?” she said to him. “Get in the car!”

He scoffed at me one last time and jumped in the driver seat of his sissy-ass Mazda 3 and zoomed off.

He learned his lesson: Don’t f–k with a motherf–ker like me. Ahh!