Thursday, April 28, 2016

Oh, those shitty little gob knobblers

Well, the motherfuckers strike again. Tonight.

Firstly, what am I doing? Am I, little ole' me, such a threat as to warrant all this attention? I'm not gesturing, or articulating, or being overt in any way. Is it the mere sight of my imposing physical existence, all 5' 7" and 150 lbs of me which advertises the imminent threat which triggers the 'drive-by' response in otherwise most likely normal kids with probably mostly positive morals?

Is it that I'm such an ubiquitous night-time presence? That such a teensy little man such as myself should get away with seizing the streets of Denton during the small hours, every night, with such impunity? Is it that I can lay claim to both the sidewalk AND the road when absolutely nobody else is using them? What, is it because I'm not bound by a speed limit? Or that I'm always on my phone in the school zones? Is it my prehensile hair? It's my prehensile hair, isn't it?

Whatever the specific reason, it must be because I represent a threat of some kind. A threat, or a disagreeance. Yeah, I said disagreeance.

And I know who it is that I'm threatening, or in a state of disagree dance with, too. I have a good idea, anyway. It's the young, male college freshman frat kid and/or good ole' country boy that drives the late model F150 and/or the Ram Charger and wears the popped collars and/or the brush poppers and uses way too much mousse, if this were the 80's. It's never the gangbangers, or the gutterpunks, or the hipsters, or the middle aged guys wearing the casual dress pants, or the working class Mexicans, or the homeless folks (who vary extremely widely in age), or the Pakistanis or the Chinese or the Indians or the Koreans or the Japanese or the cute girlies or the beautiful women or the Old Timers, or the stoners, junkies and freaks, or the little old ladies crossing the street, or the little kids who just haven't learned the hard lesson yet that forces upon us the requirement of having to give a flying fuck about everyday bullshit... it's not even the regular college kid who comes into the store and asks for the Camel Crush with headphones on.

It's entirely another type of kid. That is, they who consistently choose to insert themselves into my timeline in this specific manner. I'm sorry, but this is the word for who and what they are to me.

The motherfuckers.

That's them. That's my special name for them. I'm being honest when I say that I didn't consciously make the decision to call them that... and that it's a relatively new moniker. What it is, is that it's just the label that finally happened to them because they happened to me. What?
They feel threatened by me, because... somehow, somewhen, I must have demonstrated a serious potential to do some serious damage. Right? What other reason could there be? I mean, have I really pissed off that many customers that I've earned an entire demographics worth of enemies?  Schneriously??

So, yeah. That happened again tonight, and I of course went into Full Charge, Forward Volume, Knives Up, Wake Out The Neighborhood Mode, and as always the MF'ers drove away... fah fah away... as fast as they could, leaving me there and holding a big bag of pissed off.
Whatever. That happened two hours ago, so I ain't even really pissed off anymore. I do wish though, for once, that the mother f'ers would actually stop and back up. I don't care if I get curb stomped. I just want to tell 'em that wouldn't their mothers be proud.

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