To the guy sitting at a red light, blasting music as I was crossing the street on my way to lunch: you're a tool.
You drive a dirty, rusty Volkswagen Rabbit with the grill smashed out. Instead of getting a new car, however, you put a custom exhaust and a new sound system in the pile of crap you have.
And to top it off, you blast music with your WINDOWS UP. This tells me that you're either too much of a pussy to put your windows down because it was a little bit cold out, or you're so stupid that you've listened to loud music so long that you're now deaf. And everyone knows deaf people aren't cool. (Name one off the top of your head. See? Can't do it.)
(And don't bring up Marlee Maitlin. Yes, she's still smoking hot at 44, but she's not cool. Sure, I'd lay the wood to her and say nasty, hatefucking-type things to her, because she can't hear them and won't get offended and leave before finishing the sex and fetching me a sandwich.)
You're also not gangsta, son. A Puerto Rican flag hanging from your rear view mirror doesn't tell me you have "cred." It tells me you're not smart enough to realize that having something dangle in your line of sight while driving is not a good idea. Given the thickness of your glasses, I'm guessing your line of sight isn't that good to begin with.
A black hoodie with a skull and thorns and that ghetto font doesn't say "gangsta" to me. It says that after Little Pooky got capped, his baby mama blew her welfare check on Kools and needed to sell his stuff to Goodwill to buy Doritos and baby formula -- then the next day, you saw it in the discount bin and thought it looked "totally rad."
Fucko, why are you leaning over the center console as you're driving? Are you fat to the point that the Earth's gravitational pull got sick of pulling you down and is now acting upon you laterally?
In summation, you're not cool, you're not gangsta, you're a nearsighted fat fucking tool poseur in a ticked-out-yet-shitass car who lacks the good sense to open the windows or turn the music down.
To the four guys barhopping without coats on while I was out getting gas: I hope you all fucking die of pneumonia.
It's thirty fucking degrees out with wind chills in the teens. Not wearing coats as you walk around downtown doesn't make you tough. It makes you assclowns. I know wearing a coat means you're not showing the whole world your red Ecko Unlimited t-shirt, and that is some sort of a hardship in your world. (What, is Abercrombie and Fitch just too played out for you?)
What was your plan? "Hey baby, I'm so tough I don't wear a coat in the winter. Wanna feel the goosebumps on my scrawny arm?" Christ, did your mothers not tell you not to go out without a coat? (Probably not. She was probably too busy swilling gin and hoping the doctor was wrong about you having fetal alcohol syndrome. Or hoping you would die of exposure so her fat ass could get some charity dick from Marco the gardener.)
Put on a goddamn coat, shitheels. What it hides, no one will miss anyway.
A black hoodie with a skull and thorns and that ghetto font doesn't say "gangsta" to me. It says that after Little Pooky got capped, his baby mama blew her welfare check on Kools and needed to sell his stuff to Goodwill to buy Doritos and baby formula -- then the next day, you saw it in the discount bin and thought it looked "totally rad."
Fucko, why are you leaning over the center console as you're driving? Are you fat to the point that the Earth's gravitational pull got sick of pulling you down and is now acting upon you laterally?
In summation, you're not cool, you're not gangsta, you're a nearsighted fat fucking tool poseur in a ticked-out-yet-shitass car who lacks the good sense to open the windows or turn the music down.
To the four guys barhopping without coats on while I was out getting gas: I hope you all fucking die of pneumonia.
It's thirty fucking degrees out with wind chills in the teens. Not wearing coats as you walk around downtown doesn't make you tough. It makes you assclowns. I know wearing a coat means you're not showing the whole world your red Ecko Unlimited t-shirt, and that is some sort of a hardship in your world. (What, is Abercrombie and Fitch just too played out for you?)
What was your plan? "Hey baby, I'm so tough I don't wear a coat in the winter. Wanna feel the goosebumps on my scrawny arm?" Christ, did your mothers not tell you not to go out without a coat? (Probably not. She was probably too busy swilling gin and hoping the doctor was wrong about you having fetal alcohol syndrome. Or hoping you would die of exposure so her fat ass could get some charity dick from Marco the gardener.)
Put on a goddamn coat, shitheels. What it hides, no one will miss anyway.
No comments:
Post a Comment