Loonies on the Path XLV - Tiny Red Cunt

Hello Mr Passive/Aggressive. How are you today? You seem to be enjoying yourself as you crawl onto the interstate at 40 mph, gleefully piling up a line of cars behind you. Your bright red Hyundai is like a waving flag in front of a long line of charging bulls, people who might actually like their jobs and want to get on their way to work, but can't because of you. That's exactly what you intend, too, isn't it?

I was a long ways back from you, but even I could see you playing your game, fucking everyone over for your own personal enjoyment. The instant there was a second lane to the on-ramp, several women passed you on the right in that short 50 yard span of road that exists for drivers to merge. They clearly prefered that option rather than wait to see if you were actually going to force us all to try to merge into the 70 mph interstate traffic at 40 mph. You risked the lives of every single person behind you, and you did it on purpose. You did it because this is what you do. This is your thing. It's who you are.

Even from back in the pack where I was, I could see the signs of a passive/aggressive at play. I could see your bright red speck far ahead, with an army of drivers trapped behind you. I said to myself, "if this is intentional, he'll move to the next lane over as soon as he can in anticipation of angry drivers behind him getting over to pass him. He'll do it specifically to make sure he remains in their way for as long as humanly possible."

Sure enough, that is exactly what you did. You cut off all the cars stuck directly behind you as they moved to pass and finally be free. You can't stand for your victims to escape. Like all passive/aggressives, you hold them in their prison cells for as long as you can, cutting over as you see them moving to pass and making sure they can't get by without maximum risk and effort, enraging them as much as you can. You do this because it gives you pleasure. In fact, hurting other people is perhaps the only thing in your life that gives you any happiness at all. Isn't it?

When I caught up with you, having never gotten out of the slow lane myself because I knew that's the LAST place a rolling roadblock like you would be, I couldn't help but notice the telltale signs of a raging cunt all over you. Your car is tiny, a 4-cylinder death-trap. Despite the heat, you had the windows rolled down, presumably because you think it saves gas and you are a cheap-assed bastard. The girl with you was your daughter, yes? Poor girl was so embarrassed. The fire-engine red color you chose for your brand new air-conditionerless car tells me that you are a very aggressive passive/aggressive. You are mad as hell at the world, aren't you? As if that weren't enough, the bumper sticker you placed dead center of your rear bumper said it all, "PLEASE GET CLOSER - I like hitting my brakes." You are such an angry cunt that you even advertise what you are doing. Most passive/aggressives are bitches who desperately want to lash out at the world, but all the while want that 'plausible deniability' that seems so ultra important to people like you.

"Oh, you must have been going awfully fast when you hit me. I didn't even see you coming."

Yes you did. You crossed over 5 lanes to cut me off and lock up your brakes, bitch. Not only did you see me, but you targeted me.

Ah, but this is not you. Your anger is boiling over to the point that you can't even pretend to be fucking us all over by accident. You want us all to know that it's on purpose. You want to stand on the roof of your car like a surfboard and flick the whole world off as you clog up traffic and send teenagers skidding down into the ditch and soccer moms crashing into the concrete divider, all because normal people are afraid to hit you.

I know you saw me. I know you did because my big-assed 4x4 is a magnet to passive/aggressive cunts like you.

I like this word, 'cunt', which I have adopted from my favorite people, the Aussies. It describes people like you so perfectly.

I know you saw my big truck with the gleaming chrome push bars welded to the front, a bumper for a bumper, because every passive/aggressive driver in the Rocket City is drawn to my big truck with the scary bumper. They long to get in front of me and hit their brakes. They can't help themselves but want to challenge me because they assume things about me based on my vehicle. They don't know about my tiny little minitruck and couldn't comprehend that I might ever drive such a vulnerable vehicle and not be bothered by it. They assume I'm as angry as they are and begging for a fight. And they treat me as if I am.

You wanted to get over as soon as you saw me. You wanted to cut in front of me. But I have had a lifetime of experience with people like you, having grown up with a mother just like you. I can read your mind, predict your every thought, your every move, anticipate your strategies and counter them before you even realize what it is that you plan to do. I made damn sure I was too far over for you to get to as I passed you by, reading your bumper sticker and peering into your tiny little car to see what sort of bitch was trying so hard to kill the other drivers on this interstate. I saw you there, Mr. Cheap-ass Engineer, with the windows rolled down, your faded white hair blowing in the breeze and your baggy belly hanging down into your lap, the only part of your entire weak, aging body with any size to it at all. You are the epitomy of weakness. You are the reason black men go around looking angry all the time, because pussies like you nearly wet themselves when confronted directly, especially by a black man. They enjoy fucking with you, and you in turn enjoy fucking with every single person on the highway every chance you get.

Your daughter didn't look too happy to be riding with you. And your wife, she's left you, hasn't she? She left your ass long ago and found herself another man. Or maybe another woman. Or a good vibrator. Anything must have been better than staying with the walking human vagina that is you.

And this makes you angry, too, doesn't it? She got everything and you got a big golden shaft shoved straight up your ass. I understand. I know it isn't fair. Nothing in America is fair anymore. Everything is political and white men like you have no one fighting for you. Thus, you have no rights, as you undoubtably discovered when you entered divorce court and got reamed.

So, Mr. Angry Man, what did you do about it? Did you try to fight for your rights and the rights of others like you? Did you join an organization that lobbies for change? Or did you buy a tiny red car, symbolizing your impotence and your rage, and slap a bumper sticker on it announcing to the world that you're mad as hell and you're not going to take it anymore? Did you DO SOMETHING about it, or did you just roll out into traffic, obstructing everyone who comes across you, filled with simmering rage and trying to kill us all in the most cowardly way you could think of - using your car?

We both know the answer to this, don't we? You make me sick, you tiny, angry, faded little man. You aren't a man at all. You're a 12-year-old girl just getting her period for the first time, cramping and raging with hormones like a werewolf under a full moon. You don't make any effort to help yourself, and along with yourself, others like you. You don't do anything useful to push for positive change. Somewhere you probably have a son, whom you know is going to face worse things than you have, because it just keeps getting worse here every day. You could do something about that. You could fight. You could get off your ass and make some kind of effort, if not for yourself, then for your son. But you won't. You just want to sit in that blazing red car with the angry bumper sticker and drive around infuriating everyone you come across. Don't you?

Don't you?

You useless cunt.

If only I'd had my camera with me. I'd like to post your photo on the internet for all the world to see and to mock. More than that, I'd like to send a video clip of your driving to the Rocket City police, along with a clear shot of your license plate, and a letter demanding that they enforce the laws governing the minimum speed on this interstate as well as laws prohibiting obstructing traffic by driving slowly in the passing lane. These are your favorite pasttimes, and I know that.

Ah well, I'll see you again. I know I will. That firey red car with the white banner proclaiming your rage isn't hard to spot. In fact, you don't want to be hard to spot. That's the only thing that separates you from all the bitchy old ladies.

Yes, I'll see you again. And when I do, I'm going to make you an internet star.

Cunt.

The Weekend

We had a big bullshit 'take back our highways' celebration here recently. Basically it's the same as the feminazi's 'take back the night' marches on college campuses where they stomp around with torches and sexually assault every male student they encounter, accusing them of being sex offenders by virtue of not having vaginas. Only in this case it's just cops roaming in packs, like wild dogs, randomly pulling people over for a lot of nothing.

The ads promised that they were going after speeders, those oh-so-vicious seatbelt violators, and 'aggressive drivers.' No mention was made of going after the deadly and rampant passive/aggressive drivers. They used to enforce the laws against passive/aggressive driving, but it was politically unpopular because they ended up pulling over a disproportionate number of black and female drivers, so they stopped enforcing those laws altogether.

Anyway, I drove to Memphis surrounded by cops looking for any excuse. I set my cruise control to whatever speed limit I saw, turned up my stereo, and watched them grab people all around me who hadn't been doing a damned thing. I watch them nab a black Toyota who was cruising next to me going the same speed as me and not doing anything wrong or suspicious. I watched the passive/aggressives getting bolder and more aggressive as they realized the laws weren't going to be applied to them. My only real consolation was that gas prices keep coming down and down, but they're still killing me. Oh, and my console broke for no apparent reason. It just suddenly didn't want to open. I push the button and pull on the handle and it doesn't release. So it was a good thing I didn't get pulled over. My wallet was in there and I couldn't get it out.

I think we should break up our police into real cops and 'seat belt' cops. The real cops can focus on real crimes, and the seat belt cops can just drive around harassing people for not wearing seat belts, not having their children in overpriced child seats, smoking, eating unhealthy foods, and other fad bullshit like that. They shouldn't have guns or anything because nothing they're doing involves actual criminals. Also, instead of driving police cruisers, which have room in the back for hauling criminals to jail and a big trunk for equipment and a legal manual, they could drive Toyota Priuses or diesel-powered Volkswagen Bugs. And instead of wearing black or blue, they should wear pastel colors or pink, reflecting the nature of their task. It'd be a friendlier, more it-takes-a-village, grrl power sort of force, roaming the streets to tell us all to eat our vegetables and don't talk with our mouths full like our mothers used to do. I think that would be entirely appropriate. Plus, it would save real cops from having to do bullshit work that most of them hate doing anyway.


At home this past weekend, The Wife and I did a lot of yard work. And I discovered some new friends that were living right nearby me without my knowledge. As I came out of my shop and walked past my Dad's old hearse, a swarm of wasps suddenly began attacking me from out of nowhere. I ended up running down the driveway in my bare feet flailing my arms over my head like an idiot while the neighbors watched, thoroughly amused. The neighbors couldn't see the wasps from where they were. All they could see was a barefoot moron running and flapping his arms around.

I cut my foot pretty badly in the escape, but I got away from the wasps. I had to dig a rock out of my big toe and it bled nicely. Then I went and got a can of wasp poison and went back for some proper revenge. I searched around and found a giant wasp's nest in the wheelwell of Dad's car. I hosed it down and watched with glee as 20 dead wasps fell onto the driveway. I searched the rest of the car and discovered that more wasps had managed to get inside one of the doors and built a nest in there. So I sprayed inside the door and watched wasp after wasp come climbing out, only to fall over dead, adding to the pile. I opened the door and watched as more wasps came out the drain hole at the base of the door, now dripping with white liquid wasp death.


I changed the oil in my 4x4 after I realized I had driven 7500 miles between oil changes. Oops. I had forgotten that when I'm on the road a lot I have to change my oil more often. I started up my old 1971 Monte Carlo and drove it around. I haven't driven that car more than 1000 miles in the past 10 years, which is bad. The exhaust was blowing smoke rings and made a huge stinking cloud from a combination of water in the oil, old gas in the tank, and the seals of the engine drying out from neglect. The engine shouldn't need a rebuild, but after sitting up for so long I'm thinking it could use an overhaul. I just don't feel like doing it. I don't care that much about it anymore.


Back in Rockettown a couple of DJs calling themselves John Boy and Billy dominate the morning radio on my way to work each day. They're located in North Carolina, but the program is syndicated and a station here has picked it up. There's nothing else on, but they drive me up the wall. It took me forever to figure out what it is that I hate about them, but I finally got it. They irritate the crap out of me because of their fake Southern accents. John Boy in particular has a horrible fake accent. You can tell the man has gone through years of training to REMOVE any trace of Southern accent, only to be hired into a job that requires him to try to talk like a reject from the Dukes of Hazzard. He just can't do it right. He'll be rednecking along, then break into a commercial from some product which he does completely accent-free, then go back to his drawl again. It's just crap.

I flipped stations for weeks trying to find anything else on that I could stand. I stopped at a station where I heard a familiar accent and I listened. It was a woman out in the middle of Nowhere, Alabama, who claims to be from Australia. She says her name is Sydney. I thought to myself, Sydney from Australia, hmm? And she's doing radio out in the sticks of northern Alabama eh? Suuuuuuure.

But I kept listening anyway. John Boy and Billy have ruined me. I listen to her because I like her accent more than theirs, but now I'm suspicious that she's fake, too. A woman called Sydney from Australia doing radio in some small town in north Alabama just seems too unlikely. Still, I'd like to meet her. I want to quiz her to see if I think she's really from Australia or just another John Boy with a fake accent as a radio gimmick. If I do meet her, I may need to call one of you Aussie bloggers to help me think up good questions to hit her with. So send me your mobile numbers if you're up for the task. I'll try to keep the 15 hour time difference in mind so as not to call any of you at 3 a.m. or anything like that.


sleep tight, little koala bear