My mother is a wonderful woman in many ways. She carried me for nine months and brought me wrinkled and screaming into this world in a painful and disgusting process I would rather not think about. I owe her a debt of gratitude for that. And after the whole being born incident, she continued giving to me in many ways. She donated a significant amount of milk towards my continued existence. There was the whole ordeal with learning to use a toilet, which is a serious sacrifice by any stretch of the imagination. She taught me to read and write, and to count and add and subtract, and eventually even multiply and divide. She taught me how to cook. She taught me how to do laundry, an art I still haven’t perfected. (I’ve donated towards charity many of my belongings that mysteriously shrunk to the point I could no longer fit into them. I suspect magical foul play) All in all, she’s taught me a great deal of what I know today. She did not however teach me how to drive. I love her, but the woman can not safely handle a moving vehicle. Honestly I don’t really trust her behind the wheel of an immobile vehicle. She’s what I would consider a typical woman driver.
Now I would like to point out that I am a huge fan of women. You have many things to offer society such as intelligence, striking inner strength, a nurturing nature, and boobs. And there are women out there who are perfectly capable of driving in a controlled and non-maniacal manner, however, it has been my observation that 95% of women out there are horrible drivers. I’ll be the first to admit that women are not the only bad drivers on the road, but in all honesty, you scare me. When I see a woman driver I try and steer clear, knowing that at any time her gender handicap might take control of the wheel and send her careening on a path of carnage and destruction. You haven’t looked into the eyes of death until you’ve let a distracted woman drive you around. As suddenly as a Florida thunderstorm, the pleasant spring drive you thought you were on can transmogrify into a horror fest of shoddy lane changes and erratic stop and go mind fuckery.
I would ask that all women who drive vehicles please either stop doing so, or pay fucking attention to what you are doing. If the car you’ve been driving for five years still confuses you with it’s simple controls, that could be a sign to let a man drive. If you still have to stop and read the traffic signs in the neighborhood you’ve lived in for say, three weeks or more, don’t leave your driveway. Stay at home and try not to kill me. If you drive a school bus, this does not mean you are the king of the road, it means you are supposed to drive well enough to carry in your hands the lives of thirty or so children who may or may not have futures to look forward to if you can’t remember that the tires on the right side of your vehicle are farther out than the ones in the Camry you drive at home. Those lines painted on the street are there to help guide you, try and keep track of where you are in relation to them. If you miss your exit on the highway, please don’t stop on the side of the road and put your car in reverse. You are only begging to end your blood line. Continue on to the next exit and turn around like an intelligent, educated person. And lastly, put on your make up at home. I’m not even joking about that, don’t fucking do it in your car, or I will make it my life goal to donkey punch your dumb ass. Stop it.
You may be wondering why i feel it is my job to educate people on how not to be fucktards. Well the simple answer is that I drive a scooter, and the odds of me surviving on the roads with bad drivers are significantly less than they were when I was driving in one of those bigger thingymabobs. You know the ones with steering wheels and safety belts and airbags and the like. Cars I believe they are. At least in a car I had some metal to stop the crazies from crushing my fragile body into people paste. On a scooter I have exactly one helmet to cushion the impact. And after the initial car meets body scenario, I get to become reacquainted with asphalt. I realize scientists have conjured up with many amazing upgrades to the road ways of yesteryear, but I assure you the pavement is just as hard and abrasive now as it was when you were a child.
“But Josh,” you say, “you are so incredibly good looking, surely a few scars would only make you more rugged and handsome, a true sight to behold!” Yes, it’s true. I do look incredible, and scars only make me more irresistible to women, but actually getting them, especially in the face area, is a rather unpleasant process. I mean, Jesus took extra time chiseling this face out of granite, you wouldn’t want to deface his art would you? Would you want to piss off Jesus? No, I didn’t think so, so drive carefully. “But Josh,” you say, “you have the body of a Greek God, surely a little tumble wouldn’t phase your Herculean physique.” Yes, it’s true. As a matter of fact I have already lived through one such incident. Back in the day, I was driving myself home from my job as half mayor of kickassville, half male model, and some rednecks decided to have a little fun with me. They ran me off the road, and I promptly lost any and all traction in the gravel on the side of the highway. I was traveling at approximately forty miles per hour. For those of you who use the metric system that’s approximately fast-as-shit. It doesn’t really matter how fast you’re going, hitting the ground from a standing position hurts. I’ve got some wicked scars from that incident. So long story short, I know what it feels like to survive a wreck with no protection besides a helmet, and I’d like to leave my personal experience with using rocks to remove my face at it’s current status. No more road tumblin’ for me, Let’s leave the tumblin’ for the weeds and the bedroom shall we. Learn to drive people.
Several other things have pissed me off lately, and I will gladly inform you of what those things are right now. Look, I understand that if you are a high school drop out with a vague-at-best grasp on English (that means you, Ebonics speaking mother fuckers) I understand it may be hard to find a good job, and you may have to seek employment at the grocery store I’ve been going to for the last decade. I’ve seen many of you come and go in that time. However there is no excuse for not knowing how to use the register. You scan something, and then move on to the next item. For items like produce, someone who actually knows their head from their ass has programed the computer sitting in front of you to help you identify those objects using pictures, since clearly learning the actual names of food (in proper English) is far beyond your grasp. Just one time I’d like to make it through the express lane with my three items without waiting fifteen minutes while Shameka goes and gets her manager Lavonda to help her figure out what all those weird curvy lines mean. They’re letters idiot, and together they form words and sentences. Try and keep up, I don’t have all day. And please use protection next time you are sleeping with every guy you see, because clearly you shouldn’t be reproducing. Also learning how to count to one hundred might come in handy since making change is part of your job. It’s not hard, we’ve taught horses to count, even you can do it.
If your eyes point in different directions, I’m allowed to stare at you. If your ass squishes out eight inches past your hula hoop sized belt, and you take up more than two chairs, I’m allowed to stare at you. If you are severely scarred or deformed, I’m allowed to stare at you. If you kid is retarded, I’m allowed to imitate them. If you hair is fake, I’m allowed to point and laugh. If people can’t tell if you are a man or a woman, I’m allowed to say “it’s Pat” and laugh like I just came up with that myself. If you are more than forty years old, or two hundred pounds, and you leave your house without a bra, I’m allowed to grimace and make saggy boob movements. If you’re a man and you swish when you walk, have a salmon colored shirt on, or clearly do stuff to you eyebrows, I’m allowed to make gay jokes in public and throw my wrist forward in the universal homo-gesture. If you are too old to walk at normal speed, I’m allowed to cut in front of you at any time. If you don’t hit your children enough to shut them the hell up when they are in public, then I’m allowed to yell at both them and you. Hey, they can yell apparently, and so can I, but I do it better and louder, and I’ll teach them words you’ve never even heard of. If the office people get fancy coffee shit, and I have to start work an hour before them, then it’s my right to take their coffee shit and use it for the guys who do real work every morning. You can buy some star bucks with all that money I keep hearing about. If you dress like a slut, I can treat you like one. If you act like a bitch, I can call you one. If you talk about shit you don’t know anything about, I can call you out, I would expect you to do the same for me. If you approach me in a parking lot and talk to me about Jesus, I’m allowed to send you to meet him. and lastly, if you don’t know me, you don’t get a cigarette, or any change, (sorry Em, I know how you feel about bums, but I just can’t do it) you may however have the time, which is always “time to get a new watch”.