It's A Beautiful Day In The Neighborhood...Or Is It?

About 8 years ago or so, I used to work with a guy named Yoelly in Oakland. Yoelly was a good guy and we had a lot of laughs but he had a red hot fiery temper. But you would never know it looking at him.


On the surface he seemed like the mild mannered Clark Kent until you did something to piss him off. Then, watch out as he turns two shades of purple and the vein on his temple starts throbbing.


Yoelly and I worked together for twelve years and we amassed many funny stories, but none as priceless as this one.


Yoelly had recently purchased a new Chevy Cavalier and was for the most part happy with the car until the car started falling apart on him about a year or so after he bought it. Then, for the next year, it seemed like there was always something wrong with it and I really was surprised that he refrained from rolling it into the Allegheny River. He would start having major problems with the car that the dealership seemed to always insist were beyond coverage of the warranty.


The car was wearing on Yoelly, but after the 3rd or 4th major repair, he had a window of time where the car seemed just fine and I think Yoelly was finally starting to settle in with the car.


Then on the ride home from work one day on 5th avenue, while waiting for a traffic light, a vehicle violently back ended him and Yoelly exploded. He gets out of his car and starts hurling "motherfucker" this and "stupid motherfucker" that at the other car. He looks at his Cavalier's rear end and the damage is considerable.


In a rage, and admittedly, wanting to kill the person in the other car, he stalks back to the offending party and as the window is rolling down exclaims..."You stupid motherfucking asshoooo........l...e."


It was Mister Rogers. Yup, good old Fred Rogers that you, me, and Yoelly grew up with in the land of make-believe behind the wheel of the other car.


Yoelly was speechless. And then he started to apologize profusely.


"I can't believe I called Mister Rogers a motherfucking asshole right to his face", Yoelly recanted with his head drooped low to us the next day when we showed up for work. "I didn't know who it was...I felt so horrible when I realized who it was...what could you say after that?"


Of course, I laughed my ass off as did just about everybody else listening to the story after the initial mortification wore off.


Turns out that the WQED studio where Fred worked was right down the road and Fred seemed to have a history of poor driving as he got older. Yoelly got the impression that this was one of more than a few recent accidents he had in that area.


Yoelly called a childhood icon a "motherfucking asshole".


Now that Mister Rogers is deceased, somehow I wonder if on stormy nights while sleeping if Yoelly can hear the voice of Henrietta Pussycat in the wind saying "meow, meow...no,...you're the meowthefucking asshole...meow,meow".