[ruining it for the rest of us]
your attention please,
intimidating pedestrians from the comfort of your oversized motor vehicle will not make you more attractive. let us make that perfectly and abundantly clear.
it will not make you thinner, taller, or more muscular. it will not regrow your hair or make your penis larger. nearly hitting people in marked crosswalks will not make you cum like a pornstar. shouting at the cyclist whose right-of-way, safety, wellness, and enjoyment you are disrespecting will not make you young, beautiful, or infinitely desirable. it will not give you perkier, bigger breasts or remove your artificial tan lines. it will not award you with a newer, flashier electronic gadget than you already have, make your shallow boyfriend any more interested in what you have to say, or cause that whole table of young attractive women sitting outside the restaurant on the corner to swoon. believing that because you own a sixty thousand dollar car, every thing else should have to remove itself from your presence, and driving like it, will not improve your life. your spoiled, apathetic, emo children will not like you any more. your food will not taste better. your home will not receive more light in the evening. you will not sleep better.
to be honest, personally speaking, things really can't get much worse.
ah- but wait!
you are an asshole and a pathetic human being, and now everyone knows it.
that is, except you.
you'll smile and laugh to some other asshole on the other end of the phone, complaining about the cattle that crowd the streets and get in your way, about how some belligerent idiot on a bicycle had the effrontery to hit your car. speeding up, holding down your horn, yelling out the window; you showed them. of course you won't mention that you ran a stop sign, that you were half in another lane of traffic, that you don't really know how to operate your sixty thousand dollar status symbol.
how could you? you didn't notice.
and you'll twist your fat, botox-injected face into a smug little grin. "too close to you?" aren't we clever? you must feel so pleased, so powerful, so rare. you can't be bothered with all this livestock and their petty problems. later maybe, you'll go out to eat somewhere overpriced and trendy. after just enough drinks, you'll go home and have mediocre sex with a partner whose futile obsession with outward, personal beauty borders on taxidermy. but not to worry, you don't love each other anyway.
wake up. look around you and get the fuck over yourself.
you are miserable and worthless and pathetic.
[wombat fishsticks kaleidoscope]
intimidating pedestrians from the comfort of your oversized motor vehicle will not make you more attractive. let us make that perfectly and abundantly clear.
it will not make you thinner, taller, or more muscular. it will not regrow your hair or make your penis larger. nearly hitting people in marked crosswalks will not make you cum like a pornstar. shouting at the cyclist whose right-of-way, safety, wellness, and enjoyment you are disrespecting will not make you young, beautiful, or infinitely desirable. it will not give you perkier, bigger breasts or remove your artificial tan lines. it will not award you with a newer, flashier electronic gadget than you already have, make your shallow boyfriend any more interested in what you have to say, or cause that whole table of young attractive women sitting outside the restaurant on the corner to swoon. believing that because you own a sixty thousand dollar car, every thing else should have to remove itself from your presence, and driving like it, will not improve your life. your spoiled, apathetic, emo children will not like you any more. your food will not taste better. your home will not receive more light in the evening. you will not sleep better.
to be honest, personally speaking, things really can't get much worse.
ah- but wait!
you are an asshole and a pathetic human being, and now everyone knows it.
that is, except you.
you'll smile and laugh to some other asshole on the other end of the phone, complaining about the cattle that crowd the streets and get in your way, about how some belligerent idiot on a bicycle had the effrontery to hit your car. speeding up, holding down your horn, yelling out the window; you showed them. of course you won't mention that you ran a stop sign, that you were half in another lane of traffic, that you don't really know how to operate your sixty thousand dollar status symbol.
how could you? you didn't notice.
and you'll twist your fat, botox-injected face into a smug little grin. "too close to you?" aren't we clever? you must feel so pleased, so powerful, so rare. you can't be bothered with all this livestock and their petty problems. later maybe, you'll go out to eat somewhere overpriced and trendy. after just enough drinks, you'll go home and have mediocre sex with a partner whose futile obsession with outward, personal beauty borders on taxidermy. but not to worry, you don't love each other anyway.
wake up. look around you and get the fuck over yourself.
you are miserable and worthless and pathetic.
[wombat fishsticks kaleidoscope]