>Me bitching

>So I’m driving down the road when some asshole in this 1984 wood-tone Dodge Caravan pulls out of a side street as if I’m not even there. Of course, I bitched some about it and realized that there are a lot more things that piss me off. Below, you will find some.

1. O.K. Let’s get started on this mini-van situation.
For one, what the Hell is this guy thinking. Does he not see me or is he just too dumb and thinks, “Oh, he’ll stop for me.” I certainly hope it is not the latter of the two and if so, does he go through life like this? Say he’s eating at McDonald’s and has gotta take a shit. In order to get to the bathroom, he must walk straight through the path of a fat woman in heat heading for her Crisco Shake. Does he get up and walk anyway, thinking, “Oh, she’ll stop.” Hell no, he wouldn’t do that and obviously he hasn’t because he’d be worn into the tile at McDonald’s right now if so. Yet, he doesn’t mind doing it in a car. You know why he does it? Because he has Pennsylvania plates on the rusted ass-end of that tank. Get it? See, he wants someone to hit him so he can get some sort of compensation from my insurance. All people from PA seem to drive with that in mind. They don’t care about wrecking their cars or someone else’s. All those jokers know is that if they time the “accident” correctly, they’ll have a nice big check from insurance company to go with their government-assisted checks. Yea, that’s it. I can hear the fucker now, sitting around a burn barrel behind the “neighbor’s” shed while eating dinner with his family, “Well, honey, I almost got us a big insurance check today. I was so close. I’ll get ‘em next time.”
Yea, Fucker, you do that.

2. Another bitch about the Salvation Army.
OK. Before I get going, some of you folks may be the liberal-type and find it disgusting that I can rag on the Salvation Army. Therefore, here’s a little story about the March of Dimes.
You know those gay little coffee cans that have a picture of some adolescent parapalegic sitting in a wheelchair taped on the front, with a cute little message about giving to the March of Dimes? Well, before you put anything in there, remember this: In the 1940’s or so (I’m not sure exactly when it was), there was a huge concern about childhood polio. Everyone was talking about that blessed vaccine to stop it before it was too late. Oh, it was just terrible! Anyway, the March of Dimes began, promising to find a vaccine through small donations by placing these coffee cans by every cash register in the country. Soon enough, the swindling jokers had their vaccination. Hip, hip, hooray. Now we all can go home. BUT WAIT!
In the time spent looking for this magical medicine, thousands had become employed through the March of Dimes. Obviously, there came a point when there were CEO’s, executives, and an all-out corporate ladder. Simply put, this charitable organization had turned into a simple bureaucracy, except it was funded by your parents and grandparent’s cash. The people employed by the March of Dimes were now generously-paid big wigs who were now without a job since a cure for Polio had been found. What were they to do? Simple. The organization changed its goals. Now, it fights birth defects. Isn’t that conveinient? What a broad thing to look for answers to. The world may never run out of birth defects and these assholes may never run out of jobs. Thanks to our generosity, we have all created one of the Socialist Bureacracies that everyone loves to bitch about in the U.S. Think about this when you give to the Salvation Army. Though there are no published facts on the matter, it would be safe to assume that this organization operates by the same motive.
Moving on, what has recently pissed me off about the Salvation Army. What is with these guys calling themselves “Generals” and “Sergeants?” Is that a sales pitch to disguise the big wigs of yet another “charity?” So, does this mean that the old, scummy people ringing bells and pissing me off outside of Wal Mart is a Private? Better yet, how about you call him a “Drummer Boy?” See, while all those “Admirals” and “Generals” are snug in their high-rise office buildings in LA, the naïve bell-ringers are busting their asses in the bitter cold of Upstate New York. And these people have the sheer nerve to ask me to give them money? Well, I hope you all shall join me this Christmas by responding with a collective, “BULLSHIT.” Tell them: you work for scummy, welfare-recipients, you should at least try to appear to be on their level. Last I checked, wellies don’t drive a Latin Sports Car. Nice try, asshole.

3. All right, one more. Here’s a good one: soccer moms.
Now, let’s make this clear: not all mothers of soccer players piss me off. Nor do all the people who piss me off mother an infertile, short-shorts-wearing, hair stylist-idolizing, faggot (male soccer player). I have a broad definition of a soccer mom. Let us begin.
First off, do you know that brand new Chevy Venture with the stickers to about six different colleges and a spring-loaded soccer ball stuck to the back window? Chances are it’s a soccer mom. If you’re driving in the same direction of this woman, you can expect the extremes of two very different driving styles.
a.) She could be the “conservative-driver” type. They don’t “take chances” on the road. If someone had placed an egg under the gas pedal of the ‘ol van when “Soccer Dad” first bought it, it’d still be intact ‘cause Lord knows she’s never had the engine work faster than 2500 rpm (about 2 inches above a dead stop on the tachometer, for all mechanically inclined and who don’t know what 2500 rpm is). Also, beware of this type. She’ll slam on the breaks at 40 miles an hour in rush-hour traffic to let “Amy’s Mom” out of the K-Mart parking lot. And if you rear-end her, you’d better sit right tight because she’s gotta wait for her husband to get down to the accident scene before she calls the cops or anything.
Or:
b.) She could be the “Oh-My-God-Billie’s-late-for-practice-and-I-still-have-to-pick-up-the-dry-cleaning-and-get-home-to-make-lowfat-macaroni-and-cheese-and-green-beans-for-dinner-and-oh-my-god-I-think-I-just-went-poopie-in-my-pants-but-I-don’t-have-anything-to-clean-it-up-with-so-I’ll-just-use-that-enourmous-stash-of-McDonald’s-napkins-I-keep-in-the-glovebox” type. Ever seen these minivans? Worse yet, ever seen them on the highway? I remember heading to South Carolina for Spring Break last year. On the way home, I laughed at the “Speed Enforced by Aircraft” signs and went about 100 the whole way. In West Virginia, though, I was shocked to see a 2000 Dodge Caravan fly by me doing around 110. I looked at the woman driving. Her kids’ school pictures hanging from the rear-view mirror was a dead giveaway. Verdict: Soccer Mom. Oh, by the way, I increased speed to 130 and went by her. I will not be passed by a minivan.

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