Drive Home
Wytheville, Virginia, birthplace of nothing. This hole-in-the-wall burg is one of those places you pass through without even knowing it fucking exists. The only reason you're aware that you're not passing through some time warp, some fucking blank canvas, is because the livestock on the side of the road look miserable. The fucking cows don't even want to graze in this ville of shit. They want to be slaughtered and consumed and shat into stained toilets and carried out to sea because Wytheville sucks cock for a living. Its main source of revenue is most likely the concession stand at the high school football games (Go Douchebags!). As you may have realized by now, I was ticketed for speeding through this fucking vortex. 80 mph. 15 over. $80 ticket. $51 processing free. $131 of my barter paper is going towards a new steeple for the town church. This will no doubt attract local teens who have nothing in their lives except for Sonic Powerade Slushies, soft packs of Marlboros, and the desire to marry and belch children from the womb.
Tell me this: what the fuck is the processing fee? Fuck that. I pay $51 so some big-haired bitch (probably named Tami or Doris) in a red christmas tree sweatshirt can slam a big "Fucked!" stamp into my paper. There, I've been processed.
Don't even get me started on the fuck that pulled me over. He's probably Doris's husband. Or cousin. Or both. I named him Jed. He's the type of asshole who wakes up at four in the morning to go talk to old people at the local diner because his job is "so much more" than harassing young drivers like me who are just trying to make it home for the holidays. He's such a piece of shit that I consider his children to be bastards, even though he'll probably buy them lots of wooden toys and cheap shit from the local cobbler or blacksmith for Christmas. Doris will buy him a magnetic yellow ribbon to stick to his cruiser so he can be a piece of shit and a patriot at the same time. It will go well with his W'04 sticker. Jed will buy Doris a few cartons of cigarettes and a Johnny Mnemonic DVD he got at the local Wal-Mart (which is 100 miles away). They'll all gather around the Christmas tree and think about football and country music.
One more observation: as soon as I hit Knoxville all the cars morphed into trucks with number 8 stickers (Earnhardt rules, you coloreds!) and UT stickers (Go Vols!). Then, once I got out of Knoxville, all those trucks transformed into SUVs with North Carolina license plates. They were driven by fratboys with goatees and blonde-girlfriends who are slowly realizing they're not as pretty as they think they are.
I'm tired. Goodnight... Badnight.
Tell me this: what the fuck is the processing fee? Fuck that. I pay $51 so some big-haired bitch (probably named Tami or Doris) in a red christmas tree sweatshirt can slam a big "Fucked!" stamp into my paper. There, I've been processed.
Don't even get me started on the fuck that pulled me over. He's probably Doris's husband. Or cousin. Or both. I named him Jed. He's the type of asshole who wakes up at four in the morning to go talk to old people at the local diner because his job is "so much more" than harassing young drivers like me who are just trying to make it home for the holidays. He's such a piece of shit that I consider his children to be bastards, even though he'll probably buy them lots of wooden toys and cheap shit from the local cobbler or blacksmith for Christmas. Doris will buy him a magnetic yellow ribbon to stick to his cruiser so he can be a piece of shit and a patriot at the same time. It will go well with his W'04 sticker. Jed will buy Doris a few cartons of cigarettes and a Johnny Mnemonic DVD he got at the local Wal-Mart (which is 100 miles away). They'll all gather around the Christmas tree and think about football and country music.
One more observation: as soon as I hit Knoxville all the cars morphed into trucks with number 8 stickers (Earnhardt rules, you coloreds!) and UT stickers (Go Vols!). Then, once I got out of Knoxville, all those trucks transformed into SUVs with North Carolina license plates. They were driven by fratboys with goatees and blonde-girlfriends who are slowly realizing they're not as pretty as they think they are.
I'm tired. Goodnight... Badnight.
posted by Jeff at 11:10 PM
1 Comments:
HAHAHAHAHAH!
OMG man, the "redneck panda bear" just killed it. I'm slowly discovering sobriety since a few beers are in my system, and it's the first fucking time in four days I've wanted to go to sleep before seven in the morning. I just wanted to drop by and tell you how funny that shit was.
Later man.
Brandon
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