In which reason is an antidote to road rage. September 21, 2009
Zelnorm No Prescription Acomplia No Prescription Acomplia No Prescription Nolvadex No Prescription Topamax No Prescription Zelnorm No Prescription Prednisone No Prescription Toprol XL No Prescription Soma No Prescription Cipro No Prescription
The other day I got cut off by some douche in an H3.
Hummer built its temporary empire firmly out of the sticks and straw of douchebaggery. “Hey,” said an uncomfortably large cohort of Americans. “It is the Twenty-First Century now. The time is right for an automobile that is too large, too expensive, and too underpowered. A vehicle that looks, and drives, like a La-Z-Boy. Because when people see me, I want to be immediately associated with the sort of success that commands unjustifiable purchases.” And General Motors was ready. First they impractically built their business model around the sales of these impractical vehicles and then, with the H3, opened up sales to the many douchebags unwilling to pay for even partially justifiable features such as dynamic suspension, all-wheel drive or a high torque powerplant.
This particular H3 had balls. I do not mean it was souped up; indeed, “souping up” an H3 is alien to the intent of the car. I mean that this guy had hung, from the vestigal trailer hitch, a pair of faux-testicles. This is not in and of itself rare — the practice of hanging artificial genitalia from a motorcar is well established. Many of today’s drivers worry others won’t recognize their car’s raw masculinity and choose to enhance this anthropomorphically. And this is an area in which the H3 is sorely lacking. It’s like a fat guy in a leather jacket — it looks good, I guess, but it doesn’t look tough and it certainly doesn’t look sexy.
This van’s balls were low hanging and blue. Robin’s egg. This signifies frustration. What the driver is trying to tell me is that his car is a boy, and it has not had any for a long time. No shit car — you’re an H3. The H3 does not get play. The H3 parks beneath the willow tree in the park and watches in silence while the young Hondas dart about with their thin tires and purring, innocent engines. A single tear drips from its headlamp — because the H3 is a car that only takes, a car that will never know love — all balls, no cock.
Anyhow. This guy cuts me off, obnoxious car, nutsack. Seconds later he’s parked in front of me a notoriously long light, sandwiched with another car. And I get this beautiful idea to kick his car in the nuts. Just walk right over, put two hands on the back windshield, and just let go with a gorgeous front kick to leave JCVD to shame. But I figure the companies that market prosthetic ball-bags for cars are probably not selected for their quality. And these things were hanging, like, 8 inches from the pivot, acting no doubt as a pivot. I was picturing this future where I lob this bloke’s car in the yarbles, and the balls come off. And I’m left in the middle of the street, dead to rights, having castrated a man’s automobile.
I think that’s just about as far from the statement the guy intended to make as you can get. So to save him the embarrassment, I just flipped him off. I’m sure he appreciated the gesture.
