Friday, October 16, 2015

Food Noises Guy 36

"Bicsotti? Thats the hard stuff, right?
My, uh, kids... one of 'em... one of my twins likes this stuff. I just wanna have PART of one.
(knife struggles)
I can’t even put a knife in things; what the heck! Good grief, Charlie Brown. Ah! There we go! Let me get my table saw so I can cut this. I think if you score and then maybe if you flip it over, if you don't wanna touch it... there we go. We’re good! We’re good! BISCOTTI! I’m gonna dunk this in my coffee and soften it up."

Friday, October 9, 2015

Food Noises Guy 35

"Donuts too? Awesome.
Look at that: there's one that's oozing."

Friday, October 18, 2013

R.I.P. "Douchebag Drivers"

I'm finally shutting down my defunct "Douchebag Drivers" blog. For one thing, almost all of the posts were lost. I don't know what happened to them. I'm not all sane, so I probably deleted them. For seconds, if I blogged about all the intensely stupid people I encountered on my commute I would have to quit my job and start an IV drip and wear a diaper because I wouldn't have time to eat or piss. So for posterity, in reverse order, here a few of the shiny gems that was Douchebag Drivers.

12-8-09 "WAR (PA)"
Well. On my way home from work, I was signalling my merry way into the left lane, when in my rearview explodes the most amazing GROWING set of round headlights. "Holy crap", thought I, and quickly got out of the way of a red musclecar (not sure if it was old and restored, or new-ish; it was definitely chunky). Traffic was barely coasting at a childlike 80, and I just about had time to blink as this car blew past me and the rest of Earth ... and then he realized - WOW! - he had to get off at the next exit. Well, you can guess the rest; typical macho "my weener is hopelessly tiny, so take a look at my dad's car" stuff.

My favorite part was the combination of his license plate which read 'WAR', and the GIANT WHITE STICKER over his entire rear windshield, which read 'MERCENARY'.

9/27/07 "FWL 2346 (PA)"
Dear Impatient Freak; keep your ugly, dirty, idiotic self off the road… but wait. I do make it a practice to see the world through others' eyes. So I will try. :) :) :)

Instead of staying home, enmeshed lovingly in your kid step-sister's skanky clam, you decided to take a ride to allow the smog-stink of the highway to cover the rank smell of rotten cock and cheap weed permeating your JC Penney 50%-off sport coat. While you were out, dreaming of simpler times—when your drunk daddy just gave it to you in the ass instead of making you polish his warty balls with a mouthful of your mother's clotted breast milk—you made the world an uglier place by taking your pent-up frustrations out on traffic. When you get to the hardcore porn store to pick up your bootleg horse-raping snuff DVDs, you'll realize that tailgating, cutting people off, and making asinine hand gestures is not the way back into daddy's heart, as much as it feels good to assert your presence by being a reckless jackoff. Clearly no one pays attention to you at home, but the next time you're gargling some stallion's cum, maybe you can shit-paint a heart shape on his chest and pretend you're a big, happy family.

9/24/07 "GHE 9__ (PA)"
This bald, sorta-black version of Robin Hood (I say "Robin Hood" because he had the same child-molester training 'stache, probably penciled-in by his 3-year-old illegitimate daughter using mommy's charcoal eyeliner... and I say "sorta-black" because his skin was that weird Halle Berry chocolate-milk color like he couldn't commit to going all the way) cut me off so closely I had to lunge toward the cement divider to avoid his car. I layed on the horn because I swear I thought, "this is the end; I'm going to get nailed by this beige fruitcake... it's all over". Well, I didn't die... and after a cursory glance in his side mirror, he proceeded to tailgate a black convertible, swishing back and forth like no one could have possibly noticed his rush to the Big Doofus convention. The guy in the convertible actually stuck his arm in the air and waved Milk Chocolate Robin Hood back. He reigned in his mighty silver steed and blared on down the right-hand lane and cut in front of a line of rigs at the 22/78 split... who all had to slam on their brakes to avoid turning him into Milk Chocolate Concertina Man. I hope he was on time for his Worst Driver of September Award.

8/8/07 "GKZ 8393 (PA)"
This guy starts meandering into me right near Cabela's. So I honk... not angrily, just a couple of polite "hmmm, would you mind not scraping your stepdad's I-hate-my-life fishing-trip bushwagon into my tiny car?" beeps. He turns his whole greasewad head around and looks at me like I've got a crop of nutsacks growing out of my eyesockets before he fades back into the left-lane distance. I almost forget about it all until he comes rocketing up beside me - probably jerking off the scruffy guy in the passenger seat - lays on the horn and speeds away... his ego superficially reclaimed via one uber-manly gun-totin' road-load, spent in the face of adversity and etiquette.

And ...dude, oh my god. Your big white gangster head hankie was just too much. Did I go to high school with you?

1/16/07 "EJE 7383 (PA)"
Hats off to you: the BIGGEST JACKOFF of January! You're so busy revisiting last night's fight you had wih your live-in girlfriend/cousin about your pathetic lovemaking that you forgot how to drive your car.

First of all, let's pick a lane, kiddo... don't hang out sort of in the middle. I heard once that the dotted lines kind of meant that you shouldn't be right on top of them. I know it's hard to pick between sticking your skanky cock in your drunken mom, and banging your comatose grandmother, but you can't do both at once. Don't cry! I'm sure Daddy will "make it all better" tonight.

Secondly, don't get so fucking close to me that I can see out your back window like it's my own. It's terrible to picture that, for a brief moment, you might actually be sitting next to me. Even then, I can hear your girlish, lispy voice complaining that the gerbil in your ass won't stop chewing holes in your tighty whities, and you have to keep calling your mom to buy you more.

I could go on, but let's wrap this up so I can pay attention to more valid matters... like picking a booger out of my nose, filming the linoleum curling up in the corner of a retirement home, or or watching Fox News. GET BENT, you shoddy, pathetic excuse for a man who has to validate his imaginary virility by "conquering" traffic. I didn't return your finger, and that drove you a little nuts, probably. So: nuts indeed to the sad man in the dark brown P.O.S., purchased with a wee heap of crack money stolen from an uncle who still periodically molests his navel with a well-worn souvenir rubber chicken named Gus.