My Phone, My Car

This morning on my way to work, an individual whom I happen to be familiar with, passed me.  In a pregnant rollerskate.  On the right.  Which chapped my khaki's to begin with. I happen to know that this angry little Frenchman (don't get worked up...I'm part French)  works as a chief high mucky-muck and has an ego that might have a bit of difficulty fitting in the state of Texas, and has to drive a big red truck.  Do you think maybe he's compensatin' for somethin'?   As this person passed me on the right side, slowed down, looked me square in the face and shook his head in disapproval, which, as I was not breaking the law (I used my blinkers to change lanes), or having any difficulty maintaining control of my vehicle (not speeding, not crashing into things).  I felt my jaw tighten and my blood pressure get jacked up. It was NONE of his business as to what I was doing, in MY car, on MY phone.  It had NOTHING to do with him.  And seeing as he didn't have any blue lights on his vehicle, nor will he ever, it should have been of no concern of his.   So, sir in your little firefighter hat, I ask you this; who died, passed the keys  to you, and made you the patron saint of all drivers in your inferior vehicle?  Whassa mattah, your big, wed twuck bwoke?  Awww...What do you expect from a Dodge?!