I left from work. Like any other lunchtime excursion. Little did I anticipate the adventure...
Headed to the pizza shop. Following a big ol' oil tanker, on his route. Nothing out of the ordinary. Then, along comes... the wigger.
He's got his pants' crotch sagging at his kneecaps, he's got his Triple Fat Goose coat open, he's got his cheap plastic jewel encrusted hat with whatever stupid Hollister or Abercrappie logo printed crooked on it, wearing it TILTED AND CROOKED, and he has the hood of the Fubu-wannabe jacket over his hat. He's all strutting his stuff.
Along the roadside.
Now, you'll ask, "Why ain't his hard thuggin' ass up on the sidewalk?"
Industrial area. No sidewalks. And even if there were, the snow wouldn't be shoveled or plowed. So he was walking on the sorta-kinda barren part of the road on the white line. Except at this particular spot, it was far more salty slush than white line.
So he's all hard, he's gangsta, he's representin'. That's all fine and dandy. Until he encountered the enormous wake of the oil tanker as it blasted a potent wind gust at said wigger.
He recoils from the salty typhoon the truck kicked up. His hood goes flying backward, he twists to avoid inhaling the brine splashing at his face, and his precious skull trophy goes soaring backward up in the air, down into the slush. With the salt. And the exhaust black. And the dripping motor oil. And the diesel truck tire powder.
AND I LAUGH MY EVER-LOVING ASS OFF. I haven't laughed that hard since August. I was drowning out my stereo with deep belly laughter. I just couldn't believe how potent this dose of Justice was, that had been handed to my favorite street twerp.
He then postures and poses at the truck, as if to threaten the thousands of pounds of steel and PWN that just turned him into a soggy filthy mess. He sulks backwards to pick up his now ruined hat. He gangsta-leans back over to his hat, with the forlorn face of a defeated hero, shamed in front of his warriors, never able to return to his homeland again.
Santa Claus is real. He delivered to me, my favorite Christmas gift ever.
Humiliation.
Ahh... I feel so satisfied. So joyous. So alive.
So not covered in salt and filth!
Headed to the pizza shop. Following a big ol' oil tanker, on his route. Nothing out of the ordinary. Then, along comes... the wigger.
He's got his pants' crotch sagging at his kneecaps, he's got his Triple Fat Goose coat open, he's got his cheap plastic jewel encrusted hat with whatever stupid Hollister or Abercrappie logo printed crooked on it, wearing it TILTED AND CROOKED, and he has the hood of the Fubu-wannabe jacket over his hat. He's all strutting his stuff.
Along the roadside.
Now, you'll ask, "Why ain't his hard thuggin' ass up on the sidewalk?"
Industrial area. No sidewalks. And even if there were, the snow wouldn't be shoveled or plowed. So he was walking on the sorta-kinda barren part of the road on the white line. Except at this particular spot, it was far more salty slush than white line.
So he's all hard, he's gangsta, he's representin'. That's all fine and dandy. Until he encountered the enormous wake of the oil tanker as it blasted a potent wind gust at said wigger.
He recoils from the salty typhoon the truck kicked up. His hood goes flying backward, he twists to avoid inhaling the brine splashing at his face, and his precious skull trophy goes soaring backward up in the air, down into the slush. With the salt. And the exhaust black. And the dripping motor oil. And the diesel truck tire powder.
AND I LAUGH MY EVER-LOVING ASS OFF. I haven't laughed that hard since August. I was drowning out my stereo with deep belly laughter. I just couldn't believe how potent this dose of Justice was, that had been handed to my favorite street twerp.
He then postures and poses at the truck, as if to threaten the thousands of pounds of steel and PWN that just turned him into a soggy filthy mess. He sulks backwards to pick up his now ruined hat. He gangsta-leans back over to his hat, with the forlorn face of a defeated hero, shamed in front of his warriors, never able to return to his homeland again.
Santa Claus is real. He delivered to me, my favorite Christmas gift ever.
Humiliation.
Ahh... I feel so satisfied. So joyous. So alive.
So not covered in salt and filth!
