This morning, I, along with a few thousand other decent, hardworking sane people, was trying to go about the unbearably tedious business of getting to my place of business when my eyesight as well as my personal space was visually and damn near physically assaulted by this steroidal abomination!
wha...the....wh...what is this? seriously.
It's refuckingdiculous! It's also entirely redundant seeing as not only our community but our entire STATE is about as supine and accessible as you know who. Minus a few potholes and other such inconsequential defects that arise from the general wear and tear characteristic of your typical suburban experience, the roads are fine asshole, just fine. It's hardly necessary for you and the other shitforbrains, Wrangler-whoring, dickless, brainless, spineless, mindless, narcissistic butt pirates I'm forced to share air with to invest in what is by any one's (namely my) standards, the equivalent of a jumbo penis extender just to get your sorry ass from point A to point B. Especially when the space between said points is so clean as to be routinely hoovered by some guy in a county vehicle which, ironically, is much smaller than that skyscraper you're driving around. Never mind the fact that his vehicle is responsible for sucking away a seemingly endless supply of gutter debris discarded by an entire municipality while yours just plain sucks. It sucks space, sucks money, sucks our collective cache of natural resources and most importantly, it sucks my patience.
If said sucking was even remotely enjoyable I wouldn't be complaining. But, you know, there's just something about the size of your rattletrap and the careless way you maneuver it in and out of traffic so vigorously that tells me I'm not the first dissatisfied female to cast a disapproving shadow on your "manly ways".
Maybe that's why it's so fuckin' big. Your truck that is. The bigger, the better. The better to drain the life and joy from this planet, from your fellow travelers, possibly from women in general but most importantly, from me.
And that's really what this is about: me.
Well, me and how much I hate you. Okay...me, how much I hate you AND my apparent inability to get whatever message it is you're trying to send. I know it must have something to do with your manliness or perhaps that you're not afraid of heights. Surely there's some method to your madness. I mean, for god's sake, even my 7-year-old thinks your monster truck is more than a tad bit silly. And this comes from a boy who considers picking his nose to be an inalienable right afforded him through the mere act of breathing. Basically.......dude, even my booger-eating crotchling knows that you're overcompensating....for..... something.
And it all comes back to one question: WHY? No matter how hard I try, there's simply no logical explanation why every time I stop at a light your giant schnoz eclipses the sun as it makes that beeline for my tailpipe. It's wearing me down man. really. I'm tired of looking into my rear view mirror and being able to tell the gender of every bug stuck in your grill because yeah....YOU'RE THAT CLOSE!
Exactly whyyyyyyyyy you feel the need to tickle the crack of my ass with your nose hairs at regular intervals is really what's keeping me up at night. Believe it or not I'm truly not writing this to gain some kind of understanding into your inner psyche. And that's not only because I believe it consists of little more than the 3 minutes of internet porn you rocked your world with last night along with such mind-bending questions as: "why does my belly button smell like my asshole?". No, I'm writing this to bring closure to myself and by default any number of other people just like me who find that the coins rattling in their ashtray aren't due to the kickin' bass emanating from their satellite radio. Most likely, it's because you have what I like to call the all-body-vibrator package installed on the exhaust system of your ego-stroke of a tin box you call a truck and you've just parked it on their rear bumper.
So whadya say? Can you ease up a bit off my ass? This isn't your bedroom and I'm not some underage girl on your messenger who's just as impressed with the fact that you don't, in fact, still live with your mother as she is with the fact that you can drive and maybe, like, take her to the mall later and like buy her a pack of Virginia Slims to like share with her friends....like. Your personal statement is completely lost on me. I'm not impressed and I think you look embarrassing.
Kindly fuck off.