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Adventures With Massholes… Yes, Dammit, Again. Shaddup!

You know what really bakes my muffins?

(Hmmm. Actually, come to think of it, I’m not sure whether that’s a good thing or a bad thing. I mean, muffins are nice, right? They’re usually pretty tasty.

Ooh, and they smell nice, too. In a pinch — like when you’re out of deodorant — you can rub ’em under your arms to ‘freshen up’. Of course, you wouldn’t eat them then. Unless you’ve got some sort of fetish thing going on that involves sweaty, musky, damp muffins. Or the armpits they rubbed up against. Not that there’s anything wrong with that. ‘Weird’ with that, yes. ‘Disturbing‘ with that, certainly. But ‘wrong’? Um, yeah — come to think of it, maybe so.

Look, all this talk about sweaty pit muffins is getting us nowhere.

(And yes, I do say that to all the girls. However did you know?)

Maybe I should just start over.)

So. You know what really tweaks my nipples?

(Okay, wait, hold on right there. Stop. Time out.

To be honest, I’m not so sure that’s a bad thing, either. Gimme a second; I’ll check.

Yee-ouch! Ow ow ow ow ow! Holy shit, OUCH!

Um… yeah, that was actually pretty good. I’m strangely excited now. Shit. I guess I can’t use that one, either.

Okay, let’s try this again. Take three.)

Ahem. Hi there. You know what really burns my ass?

(Well, that sounds like what I’m looking for. Just to be safe, though, I’d better make sure. Hold on — the stove’s in the other room. I’ll be right back.

<…time passes…>

Um. Yeah. That really pissed me off. That’s the one I’m looking for, all right. Anybody out there got any Bactine? Aloe, maybe? Some sort of ass Band-Aid? Anyone?

Hey, don’t give me that look. I had to make sure I picked the right saying for the occasion. I’m willing to suffer for my art, even if it means roasting my assflesh to a nice golden brown.

Ooh, ooh — it’s ‘Choose Your Own Punchline‘ time — pick the one you like best to end this train wreck of an aside. Which of these goes best after the ‘assflesh’ line above?:

A. And they said Van Gogh was dedicated. Harumph. Anyone can cut off a body part. ‘Dedicated’, my crispy smoked ass!

B. Just be glad I didn’t say, ‘You know what really screws the pooch?‘ Woof!

C. Now if I can just decide what side dish goes with roast ass, I can have some lunch. Rice pilaf, anyone?

Don’t go saying I never gave you options, folks. Get in there and participate! Woo!)

Okay, I think we’re (finally) ready to get this damned entry started. Once more, from the top! And… action!

You know what really burns my ass?

(Um, besides the stove, that is.)

Lucky bastards, that’s what.

And I’m not talking about all lucky people here — I really mean the bastards out there, who happen to get lucky through no merit or effort of their own.

I’m sure this shit happens all over the place — in business, and love, and even in Vegas — but the place where I notice it the most is on the road. And boy, it burns my ass.

Now, I’ve talked a couple of times (here, for instance, and also here) about the lobotomized hyperactive boobs that are Masshole drivers. I’m truly beginning to think that part of the driving exam in the Boston area involves jamming the business end of an electric mixer as far as it’ll go up your nose, and setting it on puree for thirty seconds. And then developing a crack addiction.

(No, I don’t know how you’d document a crack addiction to the DMV’s satisfaction. Maybe a form from your dealer, signed in triplicate? Dunno. I’m just saying. Don’t be a smartass, man.)

But I’m past that. Mostly. Maybe ‘accustomed to it’ would be more accurate. I’ve sufficiently lowered my expectations, such that I now expect — even anticipate — asinine, oblivious, idiotic assholery out on the roads. Oh, occasionally, a drooling dumbass will manage to surprise and enrage me, but it’s happening less and less often. Generally, things are Zen. Very Zen.

So, when some sport utility bitch cuts across three lanes of traffic — two of them oncoming — to make a left turn, or a plodding peckernose just has to pull in front of me from a side street, and is then compelled to drive at six miles an hour… I can deal with it. I don’t like it. I’m not happy. But I can control the urge to pull the cluetards out of their vehicles and shove their tires up their tailpipes. If you know what I’m saying.

However. All of that changes if one of these vehiculosers actually manages to win.

You see, once I’m wronged by Tom Toyota or Vicky Volkswagen, then I have to win. I’m past the point of wishing them bodily harm in response to a dumbass swerve or a dickhead move, but I still have to win. I’ve got to get where I’m going before they do. As long as we’re taking the same path, I’ve got to get ahead of them, to teach them a lesson. Cheaters — and careeners, and cutoffers, and no-signal-using sudden-turning jackhole cocksuckers — never win. Me win. You no win. Arrr.

That’s the way it’s supposed to happen, anyway, in my little world. But sometimes it doesn’t. Sometimes the assholes get lucky, and often at my expense. They piddle and crawl toward a green light, until it turns yellow, then race through it as it blinks red, leaving me green-eyed and red-faced myself.

(And, I suppose you could say, yellow with piss and vinegar. But that’s nasty.)

Or the numbnuts continues to pull his or her death-defying, anger-inducing stunts on drivers in front of me, and manages to scoot on down the road before I do. And that’s just wrong. What kind of a world are we living in, anyway, where I don’t get the chance to cut them off? Where I can’t center my car in the two lanes directly in front of their car, and then drive like a turtle on Valium? Where my ass gets boxed in behind a semi after they pass it on the right… on the shoulder… at sixty miles an hour… in a school zone? How the hell is that fair?

This shit happens on a regular basis. I get cut off, hemmed in, blocked out, and nearly run into just about every day, often repeatedly. Now, most of the time, I’m able to hustle past most of the goons, and go on about my day confident in the knowledge that I’ve taught them, in a subtle and non-violent way, that their particular brand of vehicular pilotry isn’t the solution. Smart driving’s where it’s at.

But once a week or so, one of the boobjobs gets away, and that’s damned frustrating. It’s another reckless yahoo out there who thinks they’ve got a leg on the rest of us, traffic laws and common courtesy and crosswalkers with the right of way be damned. And that’s not cool. Not to mention very messy. And we’re the ones left cleaning pedestrian parts off our tires, because some jackass was late for his monster truck rally, and couldn’t be bothered to avoid the people trying to leap out of his way. Inconsiderate bastard.

Anyway, that’s my peeve.

(Brought on by a particularly aggressive dimbulb-that-got-away on my way to work this morning. Damn you, slow-witted Chevy Suburban douchebag!)

Sorry to be so negative — and to go on (at length, again) about the drivers around here. My commute pretty much doubled with this new job, so driving among the clueless cartards out there is a bit higher on my list of complaints. I promise to cool it with the commuting rants for a while, though. I think we’ve all had enough.

Now, if you’ll excuse me, I think it’s time for some more nipple tweaking. My ass may be burnt, but I can still have a good time. Hey, speaking of which, I wonder if we have any muffins around this place…