Fucking Bitter, Angry Guy

Fucking Bicyclists

Every morning and afternoon, I see you stupid motherfuckers pedaling your little two-wheelers up and down the crowded, commute-strangled streets of the city. You fucking assholes.

Maybe you're trying to get a little exercise. Maybe you think you're doing something good for the environment. Maybe you don't have a car. Whatever.

Everyday, one or two of you jackasses comes within a whisker of being crushed beyond recognition by a bus or ragdolled by a Tahoe. And no one would care or sympathize.

Why not?

Because you believe red lights and stop signs don't apply to you. And you think that lane splitting is your God-given right. You don't get out of the way, you don't yield to faster moving traffic and you always have that pissy, indignant look on your face.

You must be a degenerate gambler to lay such long odds against human nature. You've got a warrior's heart but the common sense of a squirrel. I wonder how long it takes you to clean up after you peel off those fucking ridiculous biker panties to mop up the shit that involuntarily oozed out your ass after yet another near-miss with an Escalade.

You think you have a right to share the street with other people safely tucked inside their steel vehicles? Well you don't. And even if you have a legal right, it won't fucking matter when I slam into your rear wheel at 30 mph just to see what'll happen.

You must be all about pyrrhic victories. You're the kind of guy who has to be paralyzed or killed before you figure out that maybe your "passion" for pedaling won't be accommodated nor appreciated by thousands of angry, Starbucks-adled people safely bunkered down in two-and-half tons of steel and glass.

Hey, at least your friends and family will have an icebreaker at your internment. 'Well, you know, he DID have a right to be there. The guy just never saw him.'

Here's the deal: Rails are for trains. Waterways are for boats. The sky is for airplanes. Streets are for automobiles. Sidewalks are for pedestrians.

You want to relive the summer of your 11th year? Do it on a lightly traveled suburban sidestreet. Or at a velodome. Otherwise, get the fuck out of the way.

Call me old-fashioned, but if you want to ride a little bike, get your ass over to the FAR FUCKING RIGHT SIDE of the street. If you can't navigate the parked cars, the sewer grates or the double-parked delivery trucks, go buy a fucking car. Or take a bus. Or a cab. Or walk.

Just because a bike can fit onto the street, doesn't mean it belongs. Shit, I can fit my car onto a sidewalk without any problem. And have, many times.

And, by the way, that stupid-ass "LiveStrong" bracelet that you're wearing doesn't make you Lance Armstrong.

To be Lance Armstrong, you'd have to: get testicular cancer; become completely dependent on your wife as she nurses you back to health; then, once your cancer goes into remission, better-deal her for a rock star; take performance-enhancing drugs and dope your blood while winning (multiple times) a race that no one really cares about; dump the rock star just as she's, ironically, diagnosed with cancer; threaten the media and former colleagues and competitors who know about your cheating ways; host the ESPY Awards where you will suck ass and have your ass sucked by people who don't know anything about you or the person you really are and, finally, thankfully, fade away into both infamy and anonymity.

Fucking Seagull

You fucking bastard.

I hope you enjoyed the one or two curled chunks of deep-fried trans fat that you managed to fit into your beak before you abandoned the full 4 oz. bag, leaving a buffet of salty, corn-flavored treats for the half dozen or so gutless pigeons that rode your coattails.

I saw you first, you son of a bitch.

I knew why you were there and what your intentions were.

What other business could you have been conducting at 2 in the afternoon from a concrete bench located in the center of a park in the middle of a major metropolitan city?

You were wearing a fluffy white vest and a jacket made of grayish-black feathers. No shoes. You had a disproportionately large and crooked yellow beak and were wide-eyed, constantly turning your head from side to side.

Did I make you nervous?

I wasn’t.

I sat down just a few feet away from you. I don’t know what the fuck you were doing before I got there but I’m sure it was nothing the world would miss if I took the bag I was holding and smashed it into your fucking skull.

I bet you wish you could have some of my food. That would be nice, wouldn’t it you fucking freeloading piece of shit?

I admit that I was a little surprised that you didn’t immediately flee the scene when I started thrashing about inside the bag. I was very loud, there weren’t many people around and there’s no way you could have predicted my behavior. Maybe I had a gun in the bag.

I could have punched you, kicked you, raped you and gotten away with it. You think your word would hold sway in a court of law?

But you didn’t flinch. I took note of that.

In retrospect, I should have flung my arms at you and yelled something like ‘Fuck off!’ to call your bluff. I thought about it. But I didn’t follow my instincts.

You were a veteran of the park. You knew how to play me.

I opened the Fritos and ate exactly two of them. I set them down next to my soda and began digging through the bag for the sandwich. I was watching you closely. And you me.

For just a second, I considered reaching into the bag and tossing you a couple chips. Then I thought better of it, realizing that you’d never be satisfied. Next it would be the bread, then the ham, then the fucking soda. You’re all alike. You didn’t want a hand up. You want a hand out.

I’m not sure what it was that caught my attention. Maybe a gust of wind or the unmistakable click-clack of a woman’s heels. It doesn’t matter.

I turned my back on you for a full second or second-and-a-half at most.

I heard you.

When I turned back around, I must have scared the shit out of you because you jumped backwards from the cement bench and flapped your wings as best you could considering you had the ENTIRE BAG of Fritos clutched in your nasty beak.

I had to laugh as you struggled to lug the bag a good 10 or 15 feet away, looking back at me with each awkward hop. I begrudgingly admired your balls. You went for the big score and were rewarded.

The handful of other people who witnessed your theft laughed too.

But then you did something that wasn’t so funny. You dumped out all the chips and then let the bag go, letting a gust of wind carry it end-over-end for a good 40 feet. Thanks to your theatrics, I was identified as the original owner of the Fritos and, therefore, was technically responsible for retrieving what had now become litter.

So, not only did you steal from me but you also made me an accessory to litter. I put down my sandwich and scampered after the empty bag, picked it up and threw it away. By this time, you’d left the corn chips to the pigeons and moved on to casing other visitors.

I fought back tears throughout this whole nightmare. I wanted those corn chips. They were mine. And you took them from me and they’re a part of my life that I can never get back. I’ll never be whole again. I can never get those corn chips back.

I’m sure you were delighted by what transpired next. The wind had picked up and I had to put my soda, sans lid because I don’t use fucking straws, on top of my empty bag to keep from doing the loose-paper rodeo yet again.

No sooner did I sit back down to eat the only thing left of my fucking $7 Combo meal when a huge gust of wind got underneath the bag with enough velocity to upend the ¾-full cup of soda. Ice and precious carbonated water spilled all over the fucking place.

That was it for me. I picked up the bag, the empty cup and the half eaten sandwich and threw them in the garbage, too. Fuck it.

Tomorrow, I’ll be back with a bigger bag. And a condom.

Fucking Carpool Lane Addiction

I’m addicted to illegally using the carpool lane.

It started out innocently enough. I just wanted to pass some jackass doing 55 mph in front of me and had to temporarily access the carpool lane to make it happen.

But as soon as I passed the fuck, I found myself unable to return to the original lane, which I’ve learned the government mockingly refers to as the “general purposes” lane.

I’m too good for the general purposes lane. Do you hear me?

I felt a rush of adrenaline and extreme euphoria as I whizzed past car after car after car. I kept telling myself ‘Okay, that’s good enough. You’ve made up a ton of ground. Get your ass back where you belong.’

But I couldn’t do it.

I kept on breaking the law all the way to my exit. When I finally merged over to catch my exit, I felt like I’d gotten away with murder, chuckling to myself and congratulating myself for such a shrewd maneuver.

I knew I’d do it again.

The sign says only cars with at least two occupants can access this Autobahn between the hours of 7 a.m. and 9 a.m. and 3 p.m. and 7 p.m. I think, anyway. I don’t pay any attention to these signs anymore. They make me feel guilty.

The threat of a minimum fine of $271 does nothing to deter me. That’s probably because I haven’t been caught yet.

That’s not to say that I’m ALWAYS in the carpool lane. No, I pick and choose my spots.

For starters, every morning I abuse the carpool lane when I’m on the onramp to the freeway. When I see a line of 10 or 20 or even just four cars patiently waiting their turn for the green light to merge onto the freeway, I laugh and call them “suckers” as I use the diamond lane to make my entry.

After that crime, which in all honesty probably only saves me 2 to 5 minutes, I immediately throw on my left-turn signal and get my ass over into the carpool lane for the brutal five-mile stretch of bumper-to-bumper traffic that my “general purposes” brethren must endure to the next freeway interchange.

As I drive past the hundreds if not thousands of cars, I know many frustrated commuters take a peek into my car to confirm whether or not I’m allowed to use the lane. But the features of my vehicle make it difficult to ascertain the exact number of occupants standing still and all but impossible as I scream past them at 82 mph.

The cheating is repeated in the evening through this same congested stretch of freeway, shaving at least 40 minutes of total commute time off my daily route. That’s 40 minutes of free time that I can better spend being bitter and angry about something else.

I know it’s wrong.

As I cheat along, I’m constantly checking my mirrors, the traffic ahead, and all the shitty little places that CHP motorcycle pigs like to hide in the hopes of catching me. I feel like I’m transporting a couple dozen kilos of cocaine in my car with expired tags, broken tail lights and a string of aluminum cans tied to my bumper.

Once or twice, I had to quick duck into the general purpose lane when I was uncertain of the make and model of the dark-colored sedan behind me in the carpool lane. I’ve actually been in the carpool lane and passed pigs on the side of the road who caught other offenders who surely deserved their tickets more than I do. Fuck ‘em.

I tried to go straight once.

From the morning entry to final exit of the evening, I was a good little boy. I stayed in the general purpose lanes. I endured the aggravating stop-and-go traffic through the worst part of the commute. Both ways. I fucking hated it. I loathed the carpoolers who whizzed past me.

I think I saw a couple cheaters and it pissed me off. I hated them and prayed they’d be caught and fined. They weren’t. They got away with it.

I knew I’d be back in the carpool lane the next morning, refreshed and perhaps absolved of all my previous cheats.

It’s not the life for everyone.

Once you start, you’re in for the long haul.

Every morning and evening, I have to psych myself up by convincing myself that there really is another passenger in my car. Visualize who it is, what they’re wearing and develop some storyline in your head that would explain why the sole passenger in the vehicle is sitting in the backseat.

I’m serious. You can’t be a half-assed cheater, spending some time in the general purpose lane and then poaching in the carpool lane at strategic points along your commute. That’s a rookie move.

You have to own the carpool lane. Everything about the way you merge, change lanes, accelerate, check your mirrors, hold your facial expression, listen to the radio and dial up your buddies on your cell phone has to be done with an air of entitlement.

NEVER, EVER make eye contact with anyone on the road. Don’t read the posted signs that clearly define who can and cannot use the carpool lane. They will only fuck with your head. And go really fucking fast.

You have to accept that eventually, the pigs will catch you. I spend a good minute or two everyday practicing my “Aw Shucks” speech for this occasion. I’ve mentally written the check to pay the fine a couple dozen times.

But I can’t stop. There’s no going back to that shit now.

Fucking Guys Who Use Straws

I’ve got a real problem with grown men who drink through straws.

There’s nothing more effeminate than a man who sucks liquid through a piece of plastic. Straws are for little kids and women. A man who uses a straw is saying either he’s A) too lazy to lift the glass to his mouth or B) he likes to suck things.

Admittedly, there are a few rare exceptions:

If you don’t have arms.

If you’re driving in your car—more or less out of public view.

Your jaw’s busted AND wired shut.

You’re drinking a milkshake.

That’s it. That’s the list.

When I see a man sucking his 7&7 or Gin & Tonic through two of those squatty little straws at a bar, I want to come up behind him and slam his face into the bar, lodging those plastic chutes into the roof of his cock-sucking mouth.

The straws are for stirring the drink, not facilitating the delivery of the liquid to your stomach. Don’t believe me? When was the last time you were at a bar and saw someone sucking down a beer through a straw?

How about a glass of wine?

The most egregious violation of the No-Straw Law seems to occur when men are drinking soft drinks at a restaurant where it’s served in a tall pint glass. Hey, fuckhead, just because they put a straw in it or put it on the table doesn’t mean you have to use it.

Why not pick up your spoon and use that?

There’s something inherently girly about a man sipping and sucking his Coke through a straw. It conjures up an image of seven-year-old girls in pigtails giggling on a porch swing as they suck down homemade lemonade through one of those periscope straws, you know, with the flexible elbow.

There’s no upside to sucking a straw. Don’t give me any bullshit about the health considerations. Putting your mouth to the glass isn’t going to expose you to bacteria anymore than sucking the fluid out of the same glass. Don’t like the ice slamming into your teeth? Use your fucking lip as a blocker.

Worse, especially in a plastic container, this straw-sucking eventually leads to those annoying sucking sounds that announce the end of the drink. You sound like a fucking idiot as you suck-suck away at your near-empty drink. You look and sound like a fucking loser.

Ever taken a close look at a man’s face as he sucks a straw? It ain’t pretty. And it’s definitely not masculine. It’s the gender equivalent of watching a woman spit. It’s disturbing and it tells me all I need to know about the guy.

A guy that sucks a straw isn’t a guy you want to watch the ball game with or have help you rotatil the backyard. He’s a guy looking for the easy way out, the path of least resistance.

It’s like that fucking guy in every office who crosses his fucking legs like a woman while sitting in a chair at the staff meeting. It’s just fucking wrong. Put your fucking ankle on your opposing knee, Sally.

If you don’t mind sending out the unmistakable message that you like to suck things and that you’re soft and you can’t be trusted, keep using your fucking straw little girl.

Fucking Women & Tattoos

Nothing less sexy on a young woman than a tattoo.

And there's nothing more disgusting than a faded, stretched out fucking unrecognizable blob of permanent ink on the flesh of a middle-aged woman.

Ironically, for old women, the tat actually becomes more attractive because it's an interesting footnote to a life lived recklessly, not unlike the way a zipper scar on the chest of a bypass-surgery survivor is both revolting and intriguing.

Maybe back in 1989, when it was a rare and brave gal who went and got the silly-ass scrawl on her lower back, that a tattoo was actually unique and attractive. Today, so many women/girls have tattoos that all say and mean about the same thing: "I wanted to buy a personality, an image of myself that I can display to everyone/someone/no one that means something to me. I wanted to do something wild."

These simple, naïve women invariably had to decide between either A) the squiggly, winged thing on the lower back B) the meaningless Japanese symbol on the ankle or neck or C) the butterfly on the ass, bikini line or ankle.

It's all the fucking same. And the "tramp-stamping" never stops at one tattoo. There's always another one or two tattoos somewhere or, worse, the endless conversations about what they want and where they want it when they finally run out of people who politely take the time to feign interest in their first butterfly tattoo.

Memo to all tattooed women: While I'm sure you thought it was really important to you at the time, it doesn't mean anything to me or anyone else who looks at it. EVER. It just means you spent a few bucks to let a stranger scar and paint your flesh in some design that within 10 years you'll either obsess about concealing with your clothes or pay the $4,000 to have another stranger remove-- sort of-- with a laser.

You can't buy a personality, no matter how good the "artist."

There are only a handful of women on the planet who can actually survive tattoos and maintain their hotness. The list pretty much starts and ends with Angelina Jolie. So if you've got her body and personality, knock yourself out.

Otherwise, stick to shoes and bed linens to differentiate yourself.

Fucking Department of Homeland Defense

The federal government (in other words, you and me as taxpayers) has spent more than $250 billion on "homeland defense" since 9/11. In 2006, we will piss away another $60 billion minimum for the privilege of taking off our shoes at the airport.

If you don't believe me, look it up. Once I figure out how the fuck this blogging thing works, I'll put the fucking links in here but for now just take my word for it.

Well, maybe $60 billion is a reasonable figure, especially to you fucking inbred morons residing in the so-called Red States.

Let's talk about $60 billion for a second.

How much is $60 billion?

Put it this way, Microsoft posted a profit of just over $30 billion in the past three years COMBINED.

Are you old school? Well a company called General Electric earned $48 billion total in the last three fiscal years. New school? Google earned a whopping total of $2 billion in the last 36 months.

Let's add it up now. GE, Google and Microsoft have combined to earn $80 billion in the last three years and the federal government has spent, according to the independent Government Accounting Office (GAO), more than $190 billion on "homeland defense" in that same period.

I'm going to say it again, but different this time. Exxon Mobile earned a total of $87 billion in the past three years.

You get the fucking picture?

Well, what's changed since 9/11 that justifies the money we are all paying every day, every quarter, every year for this Homeland Defense budget?

For starters, we haven't had any commerical airliners crash into skyscrapers in the past five years. Just like we didn't for the past 80-plus years of aviation prior to 9/11.

And, we did just recently kill some guy named Abu Musab al-Zarqawi, allegedly Osama bin Laden's right-hand man. And we're doing a bang-up job of bringing democracy to the people of Iraq. Fuck, less than half of all Americans bother to vote in general elections every four years so who the fuck are we kidding when we say that "spreading democracy" is justification for all this loss of life, money and international integrity?

*Side commentary: I think 99 percent of American taxpayers would say the billions upon billions spent was worthwhile if you could bring Osama bin Laden's corpse home and put it on display, traveling from city to city like the Stanley Cup or a MOMA exhibit. But we can't even do that. Why the FUCK can't we kill this guy? Please, someone tell me why?

And who the fuck cares how the people of Iraq or Malaysia or even fucking Canada set their political compass?

Anyway, what else do we have to show for our $250-plus billion?

Well, we've got about 19,000 brand-spanking-new TSA employees. You know, the fucking recent or, more likely, illegal immigrants that shove a fucking bar between your legs at any airport on a given weekend. And don't forget the unfathomable amount of pork crammed into districts all over the country for shit like training dogs to sniff out shoe bombs or "crisis response" programs to respond in the event of a nuclear attack.

Here's my program and I'll only charge you $50,000 for it: Anyone who is left, good fucking luck.

Forget politics. Republican, Democrat, fucking Libertarian or Whig. Clinton, Gore, Bush, Reagan, fucking Ross Perot. Don't matter. They would all, to various degrees, do the same fucking thing. 

I only care about the fucking money.

I've often joked to my friends as we stand in yet another endless security checkpoint line at any metropolitan airport, 'Do you feel safe?'

They all either laugh or say nothing. Not one, not one, friend or stranger has ever said they really feel any safer. That's a good thing. If they did, I'd fucking choke them out right there in the line just to prove my point.

I love the fact that I've had multiple TSA "agents" confiscate my cigarette lighter as my carry-on bag glides through the X-ray machine, missing a whole array of other items that would cause as much or more potential havoc during a flight. Swear to God I had one TSA fucknut tell me that I could take books of matches on my flight but not a lighter. Part of me wanted to light the whole fucking fuselage on fire, match by fucking match, just to make a point.

But try this experiment on your own if you don't believe me.

Show up for your scheduled flight and check a bag. Don't put anything in it. Just check an empty fucking bag. Then, go directly to the airport bar and start boozing. Take your time. Take a lot of time. Make sure you miss the flight for which you've already been issued a boarding pass.

Then, if you're lucky, take the next flight out to your destination.

The good news is your bag will be spinning around the carosel at your destination city or, more likely, be sitting inside the "guest services" booth of the airline you've just flown on. The bad news is that despite all the billions of dollars spent and "thorough" studies and evaluations of airport security, those fucking idiots still don't pull any and all bags of passengers who don't make their scheduled flights.

Why?

Because it's not cost effective. It requires effort. It requires money. It would, if properly implemented, bring commerical air travel to a grinding fucking halt that would do irreparable damage to the nation's economy.

So don't fucking stand there and tell me I need to take off my fucking belt and my fucking shoes and get rid of my fucking lighter to fly on your fucking airplanes.

Fuck New Orleans. Fuck the cheesecloths that are our nation's ports. Fuck building a 22-foot wall along the U.S./Mexico border. Fuck letting 7 million automobiles come and go as they wish across the Canadian border. Fuck wiretaps, background checks and profiling.

It's all a big fucking charade to distract everyone from the reality that we never have and NEVER will be safe from terrorism in its many sinister forms.

Please, I fucking BEG you, stop fucking trampling on our rights and ruining the very thing that makes it worthwhile to pay taxes in this country in the first place.

Wait until the hard-core suicide bombers start extracting their chunks of flesh on U.S. soil. What will we do then? Spend another quarter trillion to train imbeciles to pat us down as we enter any mall, government building, theater, sporting venue, etc.?

Seriously, let's think about what we could have spent that $250 billion on to improve our way of life in what really, truly is the best country in the world.

Americans as a whole are fucking stupid sheep. But, for the most part, we're brave, industrious sheep.

Stop treating us like fucking children and pissing away our hard-earned money. Don't fucking tell us we're any safer now than we were on 9/10/01. Anyone who really believes that (and there are many of you fucking idiots), deserves to be carved up like a rotisserie chicken.

Just don't bullshit us.

Fucking Dog People

I hate dogs and the people who love them.

That's right. Fuck dogs and fuck dog owners.

Are you a dog owner? Do you own a dog?

Well, Mr. Owner, you should know that I laugh my ass off at you and your ilk everytime I see you walking around with your fucking plastic bag wrapped around your hand, waiting to demean yourselves by bending over and scooping up dog shit from sidewalks, yards and streets the world over.

That's right. Get down there and scoop up that warm, mushy, stinky pile of dog shit that your "property" just squeezed out of the asshole that will be sitting on your fucking leather couch later that afternoon, grinding on your sheets when you crawl into bed together later tonight.

That's right. Pick it up you fucking slave. Carry it back to your fucking house or to the nearest garbage can. That's right. Let everyone who walks or drives by see the price you pay to have a companion, something that will love you even though you're a fucking idiot.

How much did you pay for your friend, Mr. Owner? Is he from "show quality" stock? How about those vet bills? How much of your other property did your "friend" destroy during those formative puppy years? How many times have you cleaned up his shit and piss inside your home? Are you going to kennel him for that vacation? Or take him with you?

Are you his owner or does he own you?

Oh, I can see the appeal of "owning" a dog.

You can have a relationship with something that doesn't know what a fucking loser you really are. How stupid you are. How emotionally immature you are. How you can't maintain relationships with human beings because your personality basically matches the contents of the plastic bag you're carrying around.

Finally you've found a relationship you can handle. One where the other party can't talk or ask questions or think for its fucking self. It's like a doll that moves around and makes sounds on its own. It's a fucking great deal for both of you.

You provide food, shelter and some attention and he pretends to love you.

Too bad no one bothered to spay your mother.

Sometimes you can even abuse him and he'll still come back around. You're a fucking genius. You figured out that dogs have short memories. Oh sure, there's a point of diminishing returns on the joy of kicking a defenseless animal to unleash your frustration after another day of getting shit on at your place of employment. But you'll push the envelope. You know, eventually, he'll be hungry again.

You other "responsible" and "loving" owners treat your dogs better than you treat most of the human beings you're forced to interact with everyday. Some of you "love" your dogs more than many of your family members. You sick fucks.

Here's the difference between me and you, Mr. Owner. I care more about any one human life than ALL of the dog population. Except, possibly, your life.

I support any and all experimentation on dogs. Instead of wasting our time on rats for medical research, we should step it up to dogs. Everytime I read or hear about another pit bull mauling a toddler or eating a lesbian, I wonder why people don't take to the streets shooting and/or lynching every dog in sight.

Some say these wayward, violent dogs aren't responsible for their actions. I agree. The fucking shithead owners are responsible. But as long as there are dogs walking the planet, there will be some stupid fuck that will want to "own" it and domesticize it.

And society just can't risk having any dogs laying around where humans can get their hands on them.

Fucking Cell Phones and Cars

People use people with their cell phones. What am I talking about? Fuck you. You know what I'm talking about.

You're driving somewhere that's going to take more than 10 or 15 minutes or maybe even an hour so you dial up one of your friends and start burning up free minutes jabbering with the unlucky fuck who bothered to take your call. So you're driving along, causing all kinds of near-accidents as you casually discuss bullshit you wouldn't bother to mention if you were in the same room with your friend.

You're just killing time.

And then what happens? As soon as you get to your destination, you act like you're the CEO of General Electric and Carl Icahn just kicked in the door to your office.

Friend: "Yeah, blah, blah, blah. Blah...

You: "Ah, fuck, I gotta run. I'll call you later.

Click.

That's how it goes. You know it's true because you've been the bitch yourself. You hear the engine shut down and suddenly there's no background noise at all. Two seconds later, the conversation ends.

People drive around wasting their friends' time just to distract them from their commute.

At least I do it with an earpiece thing so I actually can use both my hands to steer.

Many of you other fucking morons are wasting your friends' time with the handset jammed up against your ear, one hand on the wheel, your fucking left-turn signal STILL on (as it has been for the past 3 miles) even though you're in the fast lane. Doing 67 miles per fucking hour.

Now, see, with each blink of your fucking turn signal, I pray to God that you'll actually follow through with your apparent plan and bank sharply into the three-foot high concrete divider that separates you from all the other fucking assholes doing 67 in the other fast lane with their fucking cell phones pinned to their fucking ears.

I fantasize about you crashing into your fucking absent-minded, jackass clones coming the other way, leaving you all with complete C1 and C2 fractures of your spines.

Think Million Dollar Baby.

But I don't want you to pass out from the impact and injuries. Fuck no. I want you alert. So that I can (after hanging up my phone), wheel over to the scene of the collision, walk over to where the windshield of your (invariably a fucking SUV you don't know how to navigate) vehicle used to be, pull out my cell phone, while you are clinging to life, and call my buddy back now that I finally have something interesting to talk about.

"Thanks for signaling."

Instead of wasting everyone's time policing carpool lanes for singles or pulling over speeders during the morning or afternoon commutes, these fucking cops NEED to start pulling over the assholes driving AT or only slightly above the speed limit in the fast lane.

It's simple: In California, during peak rush-hour commute periods, the fast lane is for people willing and capable of doing AT LEAST 80 mph. No fucking exceptions!! The fast lane is for Big Boys and Girls. If you think 70 or 75 is fast enough because, after all, the speed limit is 65, you're fucking dillusional. That's why there are two or three other lanes. That's where you can go and do your little 73 mph Sunday drive down the freeway.

And, AND, when you and your little fuck buddy in the No. 2 lane are driving side-by-side in perfect lockstep at 70 mph while THOUSANDS of cars stack up behind you (much like all those charred bodies at the exits of The Station during the Great White concert of '03), you both should be pulled over and executed on the spot. No fucking trial. Just shot dead in your cars.

Your crime: Astounding stupidity and complete absence of any semblance of awareness of the vehicles, fuck, the world around you.