Some days just have "trouble" written all over them.

You know it's going to be a bad one when it's the coldest morning of the winter so far, there's a full moon out, and, to boot, it's Friday the 13th. And don't forget - it's Washington, D.C.

The day had already started out badly when I overslept and woke up to my wife's alarm clock (the kind that screams obscenities at you with some obnoxious electronic voice), sporting a throbbing headache and queasy stomach (no, not the alarm clock - I was the one with the headache). That'll teach me to party too late on a week night.

New Yorkers are supposed to be the worst drivers in the nation. Or is it Boston? I've driven in both cities. There is nothing quite like the high speed zig-zagging taxis, the monumental traffic jams or the triple-parking on every major thoroughfare. Nobody follows traffic signals. The delivery boys on bikes are worse than the cars. And then there's road rage. And then there's the Washington, D.C. Beltway.

Road rage. What's that all about anyway? You never heard of road rage before. Suddenly every time some butthead flips you the bird, it's "road rage." Like he needs an excuse for his behavior. Like he's not really responsible; it's a disease called "road rage." Sort of like alcoholism. He can't help it; just bad genes.

So, here it is Friday the 13th, there's a full moon out, and I'm about to get on the Washington Beltway, with a friggin' hangover yet! The guy who ran up to within five feet of my tailpipe yesterday on my way to Baltimore and flashed his lights at me is probably in a really vile mood today. I could picture him getting into his car, tossing the Uzi in the back seat, the flame thrower next to him, and a few jars of nails for good measure. And I bet, he had a worse hangover than I did.

I mean, March Madness has begun, we've got Monica, and El Nino is spawning floods, tornados, and pestilence. Yeah, pestilence. And, now it's Friday the 13th, I'm driving the Washington Beltway with a full moon overhead, and the road rage slime-ball from Hell is loose out there somewhere. Like, don't you just want to pull over to the side of the road and wait until the day is over? No good, he'll probably swerve off the road just to hit you, then as you crawl out of your car before the gas tank explodes, he'll spray you with bullets, and as he speeds off to disappear into traffic, he'll drop three jars of nails on the pavement, just to watch the cars go careening off the road.

Of course, this is all a figment of my paranoia. I'm not superstitious. Who believes in all that triskaidekaphobia stuff! Black cats and broken mirrors. Bah! This day is no different than any other day on the Beltway. I have nothing to worry about. Never mind that car that just went by and slowed down in front of me. Is that the driver looking at me in his rear view mirror?

Some days it just doesn't pay to get out of bed.