Men Playing with Each Other’s Balls

•February 11, 2010 • Leave a Comment

Do you enjoy watching grown men play with each other’s balls? If so you may be one of  millions of sports fans. The superbowl has come and gone, and soon it will be March Madness. Then the NBA World Championship Series (though actually they only play other teams from the United States and not the rest of the world), summertime baseball, NFL preseason, and the World Series (again it’s just the local teams; maybe the world is just in the USA). Add in Nascar, hockey, golf, soccer (what the rest of the world calls football), boxing and UFC and there is no reason for ever getting your fat ass off of the couch.

“Now here’s a guy that can run, jump, and catch a ball; he’s got it all.” I recently heard one of the announcers for a football game make this comment. A few days earlier my friend made a very similar comment about his three year old boy who loves playing catch in the backyard. When will they start handing out Nobel prizes for people that master the art of locomotion? Should be any day now right? A boxing announcer stated, “Boy he’s really using those rights and lefts!” No shit huh? I was really thinking he was going to start headbutting and crotch bumping the other guy. Thanks for pointing that out Captain Obvious. John Madden may be the worst offender in the sports announcer world. Nobody else can ramble on and on about painting their fence, turkey sandwiches, and explanations of how one team needs more points than the other to win. He should have stuck with commercials for rakes and hedge clippers at Ace Hardware. Most of these guys are the same though; they provide a never-ending narration for morons as to what is going on in the game. This would only be helpful if you were listening to the game on the radio (and really, how lame is that?)

It’s understandable why somebody would want to become a professional athlete. They get paid anywhere from hundreds of thousands to millions of dollars to throw or kick chunks of rubber and leather around a grassy field. They get paid to play a game they enjoyed playing when they were children. What could be better than that? Many of them take this paycheck and give back to the community; those guys are awesome. A lot of them spend it snorting coke off strippers asses or adding pitbulls to their dog-fighting organization (glad to see everyone forgave this piece of shit because he’s good at playing games). They really deserve millions because they make such a difference in the world. Fuck firefighters, paramedics, teachers, cops or other worthless people like that making barely enough to get by – they don’t deserve shit. People that can whack a ball a few hundred yards with a metal stick do though. Store clerks, waitresses, and office drones don’t deserve to get paid enough to buy their kids new clothes (probably a sports jersey), but some jackass that can jump high and stuff a rubber ball through a net should live in a 10,000 square foot house and have ten exotic cars. What a crock of shit.

A lot of the money comes from advertising. If you are a sports fan, then you probably know quite a bit about various beers and male enhancement products that you need. Of course if you cut back on the beer and got some exercise yourself, you probably wouldn’t need boner pills. The stadiums do a thorough job of raping the fans too. I was once taken to a preseason NFL game with seats in the nose-bleed section that had cost my buddy, “only $60 each.” How much for seats you can actually see the game from? And that was preseason. Beers were only $10 each. They wash down $5 hotdogs really well though. No true fan shows up without a $70 jersey and a $25 hat. Because when you wear the jersey, you are that player. You’re part of the team. Nothing is given back to the fans. Nobody on the team gives a flying fuck about you. The only people that care are the promoters, owners, and merchandisers because they want every one of your hard earned dollars. Everyone talks about, “my team,” and they tell you, “We’re doing good this season!” Your team? Which position do you play again? You’re doing good? Does that mean they will be giving you a fat bonus check for doing so “good?” (check out Big Fan)

Team loyalty is serious business. This last week I’ve overheard a lot of conversations between guys talking about how they hate, “all these fucking guys jumping on the Saints bandwagon.” These people of course were always Saints fans since the time they were born and nobody else has the right to start cheering for “their team.” In reality half the people doing the shit talking were “hardcore” Steelers fans last year, and were “all about” the Giants the year before. Who gives a fuck anyways? The players hop around from one team to the next like frogs on PCP; the team is a different cast of characters every year. Is loyalty to the name of the team, the city, or the other ass-tards that are wearing the same clothing as you? This brotherhood or nation that you belong to, I wonder, would they give two shits about you outside of the pathetic little sports connection that you have? Two Eagles fans in Philadelphia recently cut open a random woman’s face because she was wearing a Cowboys jersey. Truly pathetic. But hey, they’re part of the team right? They’ve got their jerseys on; they’re real men!

They are real men that know everything about the sport and will tell you why all these guys over here are lousy players. Of course they’ve never played a day in their lives, but that somehow doesn’t mean that they don’t know way more than the guys on the screen getting paid the big bucks. Most of the slobs couch-surfing sports are living vicariously because they are too lazy to actually play any kind of sports themselves. Almost every community offers a wide variety of league sports that even the untalented can play in. Of course you can’t stuff your face and get wasted if you get involved with these groups of “pussys.” Real men pound beer on the couch or at the bar with other real men (some of whom they later hang out with at AA meetings). Then there are the guys who played back in high school and want to relive those couple of precious years for the rest of their lives.

Real men sports fans in the US of A hate soccer; “it’s for faggots.” Of course the rest of the world doesn’t think so as it is the most popular sport in the world. It’s also a sport that our country isn’t very good at compared to the rest of the world. So, “it’s for faggots.” These “faggots” also happen to be the most vicious and violent fans in the world, often starting riots and killing rival fans (see Green Street Hooligans). The truly sick and pathetic escalated to an international level.

Okay, so soccer is gay, but not WWF. Huge bulging men wearing Speedos sitting on each others faces and holding each other in the most intimate of ways is very manly. Real men! And if one can get past the ridiculous costumes, then there is the whole dramatic soap-opera-for-men to deal with. For as long as I can remember, everyone has said that wrestling was fake, and yet they keep watching it. Of course now, people are more interested in UFC. Nothing quite like watching two men beat each other into bloody messes. When will there be a sport called ‘knife-to-death?’ That’s really the next step; a return to gladiator death matches would be a huge success with our blood-thirsty fans. Nothing ever really changes.

Let us not forget to mention Nascar. If you enjoy watching cars that all look the same at 200mph driving in circles for hours, you came to the right place. “My favorite driver is…” Favorite driver? Really? I can’t tell you how impressed I am by watching other people drive. It’s fucking amazing. When I get on the freeway, it’s like I’m in heaven watching everyone drive. Favorite driver… My head is going to explode. The loyalty thing applies here too. I’ve seen retards at a bar fighting because one of them said, “Fuck number 88!” Big words. I’m sure Mr. Earnhardt would have your back any day Jesse Lee.

Tiger Woods sinks his balls in the 12th hole, and Mike Vick likes dog-fighting. O.J. Simpson murdered his wife. Big deal. Both guys apologized, and O.J. was found innocent, so it’s okay now. As long as they keep playing “good,” or they were awesome at sports, they can do whatever they want.


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Drowned Rats

•February 9, 2010 • Leave a Comment

Where is the best place to build a home from a structural and safety standpoint? I think I would go for an area that is on level and firm ground somewhere above the local water line. But that’s just me; I’m a weirdo.

If you live in Southern California, you would probably want to go for a hillside made of soft soil and directly in the path of annual mudslides and flooding. Every single year when the winter rains come to SoCal, the hillsides begin to erode and crumble causing hundreds of homes to be completely decimated by mud and water. Who is to blame? Is it the first-time home buyer that has not researched the area conditions thoroughly enough? The zoning commission that allows people to build in these areas to begin with? Development owners that convince their clients they will be safe? I would say all of the above. Now, let’s assume that someone buys a home in the area and they are completely ignorant, I mean dumber than a shithouse rat on crack-cocaine; okay I feel somewhat sorry for them. They botched it. Give them their insurance check, and hopefully they’ve learned their lesson and move elsewhere. It’s a sad tough process to lose a home and have to relocate, but they survived; awesome.

It’s the stupid fucking morons that rebuild on the exact same spot that need to be thrown in a giant burlap sack and drowned in the nearest river. You see the same thing on TV very year, “Oh man, I can’t believe this happened again; I lost everything!” What was that word? Again. So you’re telling me that after watching your living room float down the street last year, you thought that it would be a great plan to build a new house on the ground that is even more likely to wash away this year? You genius! You deserve a medal! I don’t feel sorry for these ass-tards. Anyone living in SoCal knows what’s going to happen; it is not a surprise. In the late spring and summer the fires will come, and they will continue through the fall. They devastate the land, and then it rains and washes the ground away. It’s called a cyclical event for a reason RETARDS!

But these people are just trying to keep up with their jerk-off counterparts living in the Midwest floodplains that periodically set sail in their trailers down the Mississippi. What do they do? Rebuild on the same spot. Brilliant! And the news always covers these events like it’s a huge surprise that it happened (again). The viewer is supposed to be emotionally moved by the plight of the victims. I am. I feel incredibly sorry for the children in these situations that have the world’s biggest dumbfucks for parents. They deserve better.

Maybe they could move to a hurricane zone and not live in a home reinforced to protect it from such an event? Or a tornado alley where they live in a tinfoil trailer?

Look what happened in Haiti last month. That was a horrible event. There, people did not and do not have the means to build safe structures. They can’t just move to a safer part of the country. In this country we are capable of doing both – wake the fuck up!


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Gym Tards

•February 6, 2010 • 1 Comment

The gym is one of my favorite places to be. I love working out and fitness in general; nothing beats a couple hours of lifting to work out daily frustrations and stress. A good run seems to sweat out the toxins and clear out the lungs. No matter how absolutely shit the day is, the gym always makes me feel better like an old friend that is always there. Good for health, mental and physical, the gym is my sanctuary.

After a while you get to recognize the regulars. Some are cool. The ones that are serious about what they are doing sort out the ones that aren’t. We nod in passing. Occasionally we exchange a few words, but mostly we are focused on pumping iron. Insert manly grunts here.  Despite the lack of verbalization between the lot of us, there is a sense of community, and we’re always glad to see the die-hard s.o.b. grinding it out late on a Friday night when most people are probably getting hammered at the club.

A variety of characters appear at the never ending parade of ass-clowns passing through the gym.

“Sweatin to the Oldies”: The senior that is using the machine on the lowest setting possible and most likely will occupy it for the next 20 to 30 minutes. They may or may not complete at least three sets during this time.

“I’m gonna meet a Girl/Guy”: The girl is dolled up wearing skimpy gym clothes and makeup. She will not do anything strenuous enough to make her sweat. The guy will similarly appear fresh. He will likely try lifting more than he should on any exercise in the proximity of the girl he is desperately trying to attract. Because she will be really interested in how much weight he lifts right? He may even offer up advice on how she is doing the exercise wrong, but “he can help.” These jack-offs clog up the machines/weights that serious people want to use. Go to a singles bar all of you, and maybe try doing some crazy shit like talking to the girl instead of showing off your biceps dickweed.

“I’m the next Ultimate Fighter Super-Dude-Bro”: These wanks walk around wearing their Tapout or Affliction shirts (standard issue for a real badass!) looking like they’re gonna snap at any moment (cause they’re on the edge man). Then they beat the stuffing out of the heavy bag until they are tired and then play with the weights for a few minutes. How cute. Anyone watching their antics will quickly realize they have very little form or technique for the most part. Real boxers that are training just laugh. Mostly they are 18-25 year-old males that have been sucked in by one too many reality shows.

“Gym Queens”: Spend more time in front of the mirror than any other part of the gym. Some of them are actually competition bodybuilders, but you also get the narcissists that likely don’t realize anyone else is even in the same space. It’s the funniest when it’s a dude that is really out of shape flexing like he’s Hercules.

“The Social Club”: Group of friends that is there more to bullshit and screw off than actually train. Girls tend to do this more with the cardio equipment, and if one makes the mistake of going first thing in the morning or directly after work, there will be no chance in hell of getting a treadmill, bike, or elliptical trainer. Few in this group are training hard enough to reach their target heart rate, but can say that “they worked out” and not feel guilty about shoving cake down their throats later.

“The Chatty Cathy”: A guy or girl that just starts talking to you out of nowhere when you are stuck next to them on a piece of cardio equipment. Sometimes, though not always, the fact that you are running full out and huffing and puffing indicates to them that you aren’t into talking. This can be harder with HIIT (high intensity interval training), because when you come down for breathers you are fair game. Headphones are handy, but not always a guarantee.

“The Growler”: Apparently every rep during every set is causing extreme exertion for this guy who grunts and growls through his entire workout like a fucking yeti giving birth to siamese twins.

“The Farter”: Sure everyone lets out a ripper now and then (usually when doing heavy squats or bench presses). It happens. But there are others that are constantly crop-dusting the place. Go take a shit bro! I once was stuck on a treadmill next to a lady that kept farting throughout her entire walk. At the time I was training for a 10k and was only a quarter of the way through when she got on next to me. It was either keep going or quit, as there were no other machines. Rough trade.

“Stinky Pete”: This guy (rarely a woman) doesn’t change his gym clothes for days/weeks at a time. He is a smeller. Period.

by:  Poop

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Movie Theaters

•February 5, 2010 • Leave a Comment


Remember back in the day when you went to the movies and you prayed that nobody tall sat down in front of you because you knew that you wouldn’t have a snowball’s chance in hell of seeing anything? It was always some f-ing cowboy with a ten-gallon hat or some lady with a feathered monstrosity trying to climb off of her head and attack me. There could be nobody sitting down in the five rows in front of you, but these sideshow freaks would always decide the best spot was right in front of you. I was once the only person in the theater, seeing the first Lord of the Rings, so I sat dead center. Just as the movie began, some family, looking like the Children of the Corn rejects, pulled up and parked it in the five seats in front of me. I moved. As I walked to a new seat, I could hear one of them saying, “Wonder what that guy’s problem is?” Things have improved since then with the advent of stadium seating, but people still seem to flock to the area where the first person is sitting. “That guy must have the sweet spot bro.” Or, invariably, if they don’t sit right in front of you then it’s right behind. And of course one of the neanderthals will likely bump the back of your seat with their oversized club foot at least twenty times (usually just as you’ve gotten absorbed in the story and have forgotten about the last bump and grind session). Of course I’ll still take either group compared to the fucking weirdo that sits right down next to you when there are about a hundred other possible seats. This guy is on the border of getting socked in the face.


Surround sound might occasionally blow out your eardrums, but it sure beats the hell out of listening to Jim-Bob and Shereen’s (names made up) conversation about “how getting a colonoscopy really isn’t that bad…you just run this tube up…kind of messy…” (real conversation). I’ll take my ears ringing for a while thank you. People that are constantly talking at the movies need to be shot in the face. Usually I’ll do the “shoosh” thing and it will work. Or, I’ll move to another seat. But sometimes it is just so satisfying to stand up, turn around, and scream, “SHUT THE FUCK UP!” to the ass clown telling his moron buddy how he banged Sheila in accounting. I’ve only done this once, but the results were phenomenal. They not only shut up but moved away as well. Am I alone on this one, or should people wait to rent it if they want to have a running dialogue throughout the film?

Bad Seats and Sticky Floors

Cushy seats with padded armrests are starting to replace those old beat-to-hell vinyl things with duct tape holding down the spring that inevitably found a secret route right into your ass, but there are still plenty of theatres sporting the old hardware. Then there are the ones that tilt forward because they are broken, making you slouch forward. And if you are junior high age or younger this will make you shorter than your date and screw up your bad ass yawn and stretch technique. As if the seating wasn’t horrifying enough, the same theatre with the bad seats most likely has a sticky floor. This is mildly gross in a regular movie but horrifying at anything rated NC-17 or above.


A long time ago in a galaxy far far away (yeah Star Wars affected me as a child) you didn’t have to sell a kidney to go to the movies. A while back I went to Universal City in Hollywood to see Book of Eli.  $12 parking + $12 ticket + $12 popcorn and soda = $36 to see this flick. Ouch. Of course, it’s not always that bad. It just depends on the location and the time of day, but damn. If you’re a regular working stiff and you want to take a date to a movie, you shouldn’t have to get a loan from the bank to do so. They get you on those sodas too. You don’t start off wanting a 70 ounce Coke, but when you notice that it’s only $6 compared to the 20 ounce for $5 you get the big son-of-a-bitch. Half way through the movie you’re doing the pee dance praying you can make it another 30 minutes or so. The seal will break just as the movie is popping off, and you will have to run to the bathroom. Once there, they’ve gone green and there are no paper towels; you have to use the air dryer (which blows) or wipe on your pants. It could be worse you could have had some golem sitting four rows back pelting you with popcorn.

Children and Cell Phones

Children should not be allowed into grown-up movies if they meet any of the following criteria: are children, are children, or are children. Other than that, no problem. And p.s., who the F brings 3 or 4-year-olds to see District 9? Really? I didn’t just pay $36 to hear a baby crying for two hours. However the baby could come in handy as something to throw at the dickhead that lets their cell phone keep ringing, or worse, answers the damn thing.


After seeing The Invention of Lying I felt like getting some kind of shot and a hot shower. Thank god for the invention of the Bloody Mary. I had some jerk sitting behind me the entire time coughing up a lung. I suspect he had acute emphybronchialdeath-itis. If he made it a couple more days I’d be surprised. I couldn’t move either because the theater was packed (mostly with old people; damn matinees). Hard to believe for a stinker like that. And, unbelievably, the same freak show was at the next movie I went to a week later. Yuck.

Mr. Poops

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Television News Zombies

•February 5, 2010 • Leave a Comment

Yes, there was an accident on the freeway—some soon-forgotten buffoon is dead because he can’t drive a car, or because he was too busy texting some idiot woman he will never screw again in his apartment amidst a sea of Pizza Hut boxes and Coors longnecks. Let’s mourn this stranger together as a rail-thin, makeup-caked woman with a name like something from an alternative universe ran by the soft porn industry’s elite feigns sympathy.

Yes, in the fun and colorful world of professional sports, men in little matching outfits hit and caught different shaped balls, scored points, made goals, touchdowns and many other really exciting things that grown men were paid millions of dollars to do. These things of course being the same things they did as children while their parents wiped their noses and bandaged their boo-boos. The crowd goes wild, now so can you on your fucking couch in your underwear.

Wouldn’t you know it? Some goddamn or other thing occurred in the stock market and people are talking. Experts are consorting with experts. There is word of something affront. The Dow. It took a tumble. Wall Street. It’s down, but some stocks are up. Is this beginning to feel Seussical? Things go up and down in this world. They go down and up, yes they do.

Guess what? It’s winter and it’s snowing. Well, it’s not snowing right now, but later when you’re asleep. It’ll be snowing then. A thick blanket of Christmas miracle dust will engulf the entire fucking city. But then by morning it will be back to normal: oily road grime black as nothingness while the litter foliage turns grey and fades once more into the detritus of the land.

Tune in. More later. Wait! This just in: you’re a fucking zombie.

Zoop out…

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Extreme Pet Owners (EPO)

•February 5, 2010 • Leave a Comment

Do you like puppies? Maybe a cute kitten? Who wouldn’t, baby animals are adorable, and many grow up to be great pets and loyal companions. They can be a great addition to a family or become a friend to a lonely single. Many have great personalities and make us laugh; others are guardians or helpers. Pets are great.

But what about their owners? Have you ever met an EPO (Extreme Pet Owner)? Who are the EPOs? These are people that constantly tell you amusing anecdotes about their animals regardless of whether or not you want to hear about how little Petie chased a squirrel at the park and knocked over someone’s grandmother. Princess (the 140 pound Rottweiler that makes Cujo seem nice) somehow got out of the yard again and ate the tires off of Mr. Johnson’s truck. Well actually, that would be kind of a funny story, but more often than not, the story is more likely about how the dog peed on the vet or barfed something interesting up on the rug. It’s not like an occasional story is annoying by itself, but these tards like to give you daily updates, as if you and Fluffy are dear old friends. I don’t want to hear about your fucking barfing bichon or your pissing poodle.

Then there are the sympathy pleas. “Snuggles has lung cancer and I’m starting an office collection to save him.” “Really, it will only cost $5000 for kitty cat radiation treatment; can I give you a check made out to fuck off?” I’m a heartless bastard maybe, but I live in a country where there are children that go to bed hungry and people sleeping in boxes that I think could probably use the money a little bit more than your fur-ball that induces my own health problems every time I come within twenty feet of it.

By the way, one in three people are allergic to cats. Yet people still think it’s cool to own these walking death dealers and invite you to their homes where you will enjoy a fun filled evening of sneezing, blowing your nose, rubbing your eyes raw, and choking. One more note on cat allergy sufferers: Benadryl, etc. doesn’t work for all of us in answer to your, “Can’t you just take a Benadryl or something?” But really, I do enjoy jacking myself with a syringe of epinephrine just so I can look at a few more snapshots of Mr. Zippers wearing his bee costume. Don’t get me wrong, I love cats…properly barbecued.

They’re almost as adorable as big slobbery dogs that think that everyone wants to tango with them. “Oh yeah, I just love it when your bull mastiff jumps up on my lap and damn near takes my face off one slobbery lick at a time.” The only thing grosser is watching the dog lick all over the owner’s mouth giving it ‘kisses.’ Yuck. It’s always fun too, when Bowser plants his snout right up your ass because he ‘needs to check you out.’ What exactly is this son-of-a-bitch checking out? I’m pretty sure he can now give a thorough report on my last three meals after snout-fucking me.

The people that show up at your home with their pet. What the fuck is that all about? They somehow don’t realize how rude and unacceptable that is. Then assume you play the gracious host; the next day they laugh off their team of pitbulls that just dug up your sprinkler system and ate your garden gnome. Or, they can’t go on vacation, because they don’t want to leave the pet at a kennel or with strangers. Cuckoo cuckoo…

The pet owners that don’t keep their homes clean. Cat hair all over everything. That wonderful aroma of cat piss soaking into the floorboards. Shredded remains of slaughtered stuffed animals that Barksley had his way with. The animal itself leaves a lot to be desired. Smelly and greasy, it’s pelt is like a transients soiled trousers.

Back to extreme owner behavior though. My dog (believe it or not, I have a pet) was invited by an EPO to attend a sleep over for her dog’s birthday. That’s some buck wild crazy shit right there. But then I overheard a woman on the bus talking about the birthday party that she had recently held for her cats, complete with costumes and cake.

by: Poop

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•February 5, 2010 • Leave a Comment

The situation is this: You are driving in the fast lane passing all of the cars in the lane(s) to your right, and then you come up on some jackass driving the speed limit (or less) in the fast lane. Whatever speed this waste-of-life is driving; it is too slow and impedes your progress. Is this person in front of you (a) a complete moron oblivious to what is going on and doesn’t realize he is blocking traffic, or is he (b) a total asshole that (1) thinks that he is doing everybody a service by demonstrating safe driving by doing the speed limit (playing citizen patrolman), (2) is intimidated by anyone driving faster than him (he would be emasculated if someone had the audacity to pass him), or (3) enjoys pissing other people off and is possibly trying to provoke a physical altercation with other drivers? If you encounter type (a), they will usually move out of the way after they notice you flashing your lights at them, honking, and riding their ass. Often they do so in a jerky manner, almost as if they have just been awoken from a coma. Type (b)? This is another story. You will have to move back into the slow lane (assuming it isn’t also blocked like James Gandolfini’s arteries) and drive forward to the point at which you can cut back over into the fast lane (preferably cutting in only inches in front of the douche bag that was holding you up). For bonus points, hit the brakes causing asstardo to have to slam on theirs. Chances are when you pass this chode, they will give you a dirty look, shake a fist at you, or give you the middle finger. Here’s your chance to demonstrate your simulated oral-sex gesture. Most likely this will really infuriate the ass-clown driving next to you. Your work here is done.

Closely related to the numb-nuts above are the citizen patrolpeople driving around on our city streets (that are most of the time zoned at 25-35 mph). If you think that 25 mph is torture and you’d rather get your teeth pulled than drive that slow, patrolpeople would like to introduce you to 10 mph. They will absolutely lose it when you pass them in a residential neighborhood.

What about the clowns that apparently don’t know how to use their turn signals? They just merge in front of you out of nowhere (and your the asshole for not knowing they wanted in?). Then their polar opposite is the jerk that just goes ahead and leaves their blinker on permanently. Ten miles later, they’re still ‘getting over.’

Then there’s the cheese-dick in front of you on the freeway on-ramp barely approaching 40 mph that will probably get everyone killed when they enter traffic that is moving at 80 mph. Usually the elderly not wanting to tackle any challenge in too much of a hurry, they are more focused on remembering whether it’s a CAT scan or a colonoscopy that they are going in for next week than merging onto the freeway.

The chump that won’t let you get in? Even though you’ve had your blinker on for the past three miles, the lovely people on the I-10 keep playing a game called speed-up-slow-down-don’t-let-in. The world will come to an end if just one person gets in front of them. In LA we just start moving in; it’s the only way it will ever happen. Nobody wants to get hit so they grudgingly cooperate. When I’ve used this tactic in other parts of the country, people have become highly offended. Good times.

Some bitch is always talking on her phone waiting at a stop sign. Then confusion ensues as she forgets whose turn it is to go. After honking and half starts, gestures and dirty looks, the situation eventually works itself out just in time for the retard that thinks it’s a great idea to drive while he shaves. After nicking himself, he fails to stop, causing you to swerve onto the sidewalk and damn near run over girl scouts. After you get back on the road, you will be rear-ended by some goth chick putting on her black lipstick while looking in her rear view mirror. She slams on her brakes at the last minute and barely dents your fender. Later the tourist trying to read his map / GPS device will actually total your car in the middle of the intersection.

Backseat-drivers are always a pleasure. “Turn here.” “Slow down.” “That was the turn back there.” “Hurry up.” I have two words for these people; you know what they are. They are almost always the same people who never stop complaining about how bad other people drive while they themselves may in fact be the world’s worst driver.

And then there is the guy that complains about your choice of music; they think that all forms of electronica are called ‘techno’ and suggest you play their Lady Gaga CD instead. We’ll discuss this shitbird in more depth in a later post. For now, just remember this complainer is also probably the same guy you were kind enough to give a ride to out of the goodness of your heart and is now complaining about your excessive use of air conditioning and explaining to you how you should use public transportation more often. I think in some countries it is legal to kill these people.

by: Poop

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