You self-absorbed, rooster-loving, douche bag, do you really not see me RIGHT HERE?! Yeah, I understand your effing turn signal was on, but that doesn’t mean that you can now defy all known laws of physics and merge into the EXACT SAME SPACE I CURRENTLY OCCUPY! It’s physically impossible, but maybe your overpriced Lexus allows you to phase shift between different dimensions. I don’t know. I drive a Civic.

And to the a-hole right in front of me, there’s a reason your crappy 1982 Ford Fiesta is smoking. IT’S USED UP! The smoke screen you’re throwing up onto the cars behind you has reduced visibility for over 300 other drivers. Nice. Pull that piece of garbage onto the shoulder so those of us who drive faster than thirty miles an hour can get past your broken down turd. Nice trash bag on the window, by the way, is it really more effective than buying a car that doesn’t look like a stained glass window? Your schizophrenic vehicle can’t decide whether it wants to be blue, red, green, or the good ol’ gray primer. In case nobody’s ever cared to tell you before, that stupid ass red tape over your taillight doesn’t mean that you’re not driving a death trap. I hope for your stupid sake that you don’t hit a bump in the road, because your car is going to rattle apart, leaving you sitting in a broken pile of scrap metal on the interstate. Wait, I meant to say I hope you get hit by that semi. Honest mistake.

Click on the damn link below so I can finish bitching at the other idiots on the road, including dumbass truckers and old people.

Speaking of that tractor-trailer, how do you think that passing your other redneck buddy in the semi driving in the right lane at the EXACT SAME SPEED is any help to your cause of getting your load of decorative soaps to Arizona on time. You evidently can’t see anything in your rearview mirror, you son of a bitch, or you would notice the 2 mile long line of cars waiting for you to execute your pass sometime today. I realize you can’t possibly have any conscious thought running through your tiny, cross-eyed head, but why don’t you get off your CB and drive the effing truck like you’re supposed to. Candy Cane is not a real woman, and if she were, she would not be interested in your hairy, smelly ass. Drive, asshole.

As for you, grandpa, I understand that you’re trying to retain your mobility and hence, your freedom.  I get it, I really do, but your stooped-over, white-knuckled posture can’t possibly allow you to see over the dashboard. Ask your son, who’s probably also a retiree to put you in a nice home where the uncaring nurses at least allow you to stare at their asses like the dirty old man that you are. It’s not 1935. I thought you would have noticed the advances in transportation technology since you were seventy-two. You didn’t have to crank your car to start it, and it will actually travel at more than 17 miles per hour. Here’s another great technological advance in transportation. It’s called a bus. Take it.

Thanks for being a bunch of crazy ass efftards. Thanks to you, I’m now late for work/a party/my life. I want every single one of you dicks to know how I feel, but I only have these two middle fingers. Oh, and this bottle of pee from my last road trip that I plan on throwing at the next a-hole who cuts me off. You all really piss me off.