My blood boils in hot, scarlet steam that condenses on the ceiling of my car, dripping back… My blood boils in hot, scarlet steam that condenses on the ceiling of my car, dripping back down, staining my “The Fast and the Furious” seat covers. My 98-pound frame fairly sizzles with anger. Vin Diesel would not take this, I think, he would not grin and bear it when a white whale called Oldsmobile lumbers in front of his 1990 Cavalier without signaling.

What would Diesel do, I ask myself, looking to my WWDD? bracelet.

So I roll down my window in slow motion, Tarantino style. My eyes are cold steel now. I would never forget to signal when changing lanes, and I know my wrath is righteous. I reach out the window, pausing to savor the moment. Then, I extend one beautiful finger.

Ideally, the back tires on the offending Oldsmobile would now blow out, sending it into a fishtail before it rolls over and over again. Coming to a stop, with its dead wheels in the air, a few tense seconds would pass before a seatbelt spark ignites the ruptured fuel line. I’d utter a pithy quip, something like, “That’s not your father’s exploding car,” and my supermodel love interest would laugh appreciatively. “To Rio!” I’d say, and the credits would roll.

But that doesn’t happen. Instead, I ride all the way to work with my finger out like that, thinking. Thinking what a dork I must look like, because only dorks still use out-dated expressions of anger like “the finger.” It doesn’t even shock my boss anymore, because flipping the bird is now passe. I’m declaring that fad totally over.

See, nothing can travel faster than light. Or so it was thought, until scientists began to study the evolution of vulgarity. Suddenly there was a new primal force in the universe: our never-ending need to find new and different ways to offend people. As prominent Los Angeles social researcher Bob Odenkirk put it, “It’s becoming increasingly difficult to insult people and thereby get their attention.”

It’s easy to find examples of this restlessness in public taste. Does anyone remember when Marilyn Manson was offensive and sold millions of records? When The New York Times wouldn’t run the word “ass” on the front page, replacing it with “backside”? When the career of Fred Durst offended our belief in a just and loving God, and the women’s suffrage movement offended our wisdom in keeping our better halves at home, where they belong, with the pies? Or when the idea of a preemptive war based on falsified evidence that wasn’t all that convincing in the first place might’ve offended our sense of universal morality?

Not any more.

These days, people only give the finger to be ironic, the same way they enjoy Carrot Top commercials. Like, “Ha ha, yes, Carrot Top, you are so unfunny and weirdly androgynous, I will totally use whatever collect-calling plan you endorse. Wink!” Only my grandmother flips the bird sincerely, but she could still beat up your grandmother. I dare say that’s proof that the world has moved on, beyond the finger, though I have to admit the flow of that argument is sketchy even to me.

So what’s the solution? Are we stuck with this mad race to the bottom of crudity? Are we doomed to more and more complex hand gestures to express our rage?

Yes. Get cracking. I’ve already tried the double middle finger, with both arms out the window, and that’s just doubly lame. That one where you make a “V” with your fingers and then stick your tongue between them doesn’t work either, it seems to provoke more confusion than insult.

But I’ve found other ways to make my life more offensive. This morning, for example, when my boss waved to me in the hallway, I threw a necklace of beads at him, shouted, “Show me your tits!” and bit the head off a small dog. Let me tell you, he’s got his eye on me now. And that’s really the whole idea.

Jesse Hicks is a real go-getter with serious management potential. Email him at [email protected].