Date line, a stop light in any town in America.
You intend to progress in a straight line, or perhaps take a right turn.
Some assmaster across the way is beginning to inch, he's driving one of the classic asshole cars, you know he's going to try and take a left across two lanes of oncoming traffic.
You'll be damned if this D-bag/ette is going to break the rules for his/her own selfish needs, you steel your nerves for a broadside collision and rev the engine.
The light turns green. With a loud splash your feet are awash in viscous, fishy fluid. You realize with horror that your vagina has ruptured. Your foot trembles useless above the gas peddle. Your gay car idles forward.
The a-hole completes his illegal left, smiling his twisted, shitfuck smile. You pull over and wrap a filthy old flannel blanket around your waist like a little shithead kid who pissed his pants on a field trip to the science museum, on April 15th, 1993. You know, right in front of the world population counter? Jean shorts? Ah well, it was pretty gay.
Why does the asshole left turner (ALT) always win?
Because you're a bunch of pussies! You know full well that in a broadside accident, the person taking a left absorbs 100% of the insurance liability, but you just can't work up the cock to crash your 2 ton shitbox into their pickup truck (it's always a pickup truck or a work van).
These ALT's quite literally deserve to die. As you climb out of your mangled station wagon, you should skip, literally skip over to the ALT's car and peer in the blood fogged window with a huge grin on your face.
Is their skull ruptured? Good. Shit leaking out? Even better. Can you not even tell what part of the hamburger'd corpse is their head? You win!
Don't worry about getting hurt, after all you're wearing a seatbelt; an ALT never wears theirs.
You have to remember that ALTs think they're more likely to die in a crash by getting caught in a burning/sinking vehicle rather than careening pell-mell off numerous, jagged, immovable objects, spraying their precious fluids over an area the size of a soccer pitch.
Also, they think they're better than you. But you know what? Importance isn't measured in barb-wire tattoos and illegitimate children, it's measured in bravery and honor.
So what say you, pathetic road-serf? Would ye deign ride with the aristocratic knights or the road? Doth thou shed the vestments of pussydom to join your betters in the gaping maw of glory?
The Baron invites you to join the crusade against ALT's!
Together we can crush the heathenistic horde into sticky goo, stipled with fragmented bone and a little bit of feces (it won't smell that bad, don't worry about it dawg).
The path to glory will be paved with the corpses of the ALT!
Subscribe to:
Post Comments (Atom)
No comments:
Post a Comment