The Week In Review
Before we get on to what you missed during the week after you rekindled your romance with prescription cough syrup, a quick note to the douchebag driving a maroon Scion who missed my bumper by 6 inches on Route 60 on Friday: This is not The Fast and the Furious. You are not Vin Diesel. You couldn’t even spell Diesel if I spotted you the “D”, the “S”, and all of the vowels. And you are not driving a cool car, you are driving a fucking toaster on wheels. Stop acting like you’re a professional stunt driver. You are a professional asshole, of that I have no doubt, and the only way you’ll live long enough to become a professional human being is to chill the fuck out before you kill yourself or before I find your ass and rip it a new dual-exhaust tailpipe. (I’ll even throw in under-carriage lights.)
Asshole.
Come to think of it, I don't think Vin could spell Diesel either. He can't even spell Vince.
Ok, on with the week that was…
- On Tuesday, I founded the Casey Anthony Skydiving School for Toddlers.
- On Wednesday, I taught people how to gawk at assholes like our friend driving the red Scion up there after they crash and fucking burn.
- Also on Wednesday, we watched Nicolas Cage lose his fucking shit.
- On Thursday we determined that 65,000 phone calls in one year is too many unless you’re Oprah and you’re ordering pizza.
- And on Saturday we discovered that there was a time when Mexico was known for something other than Cartel ordered mass beheadings: like playing the trumpet in a bullring while a dude on a bicycle tries to stab the bull in the fucking eyes.
And with that, we’ll head off into another week of wonder and joy. And by “we”, I mean “me”. And by “wonder and joy”, I mean “prescription cough syrup”. I’m going to drink prescription cough syrup.
A toaster with wheels. I like that. I always thought of it as a refrigerator with wheels. But as long as we agree that it’s an ugly, terrible car, well, I guess we’re on the same page.
One of those, all decked out Fast and the Furious style, pulled up to me at a stoplight a few weeks ago wanting to race my 450 horsepower Mustang, which you will not find me trying to drive like Vin Diesel either. Regardless, I don’t need to tell you the outcome of what happened.
I hate these clowns.
The important thing is that we all realize it is some sort of kitchen appliance.
I wish all cars came with in-dash cameras specifically so we could have footage of the look on the face of every ass-clown who gets smoked at a stop light like that. Beautiful.
Scions- the tiny penis-ed man’s PT Cruiser. And as we all know a PT cruiser is nothing more than a Slap Chop.
Yikes, they don’t make you take Vince when you buy a PT Cruiser, do they? Because that guy’s kinda nuts.