At Least This Weekend Should Be Fun!

I got to exercise my Masshole today, I was pretty excited about that, but I'll get to that shortly. I'm starting this post by letting you know my body is ready to kill itself. I've invested my time bouldering lately, meaning hardcore rock climbing that stresses the arms, fingers, shoulders, and toes? a lot more than regular rock climbing would... It's completely awesome, and I love it, please pardon my lack of fun and unusual descriptors, but I'm saving them for a bit later.

Both my knees are aching, one legitimately at least, my upper back is constantly sore, as well as my neck, but that's from belaying. My forearms have never been this strained, barring all masturbation jokes, and I'm pretty sure I know what a broken toe feels like now... Still it's a whole new kind of rush while your body hangs from your fingertips over large plushy mats that are as fun to fall on as it is frustrating to actually fall. And to finish a route that you've been working on for a hours if not days? A sense of accomplishment that is only amplified by the small amounts of endorphins and adrenaline in your system. Do it!

Here it is, and most of you have probably already heard this, but I'll try to be a bit more articulate and imaginative about it. So here I am coming to a red light, slowing down and taking my place hugging the yellow line to courteously allow for traffic going straight to have enough room to do so, and some dumb dyke bitch (oh, they will get better) driving a truck a hundred times larger than her evolutionarily smaller gendered brain can handle driving correctly, taking a right onto the oncoming lane of the street I'm on. Of course, she has no idea how to properly turn a truck around a corner, and the dumpster dropped results of a drug induced blackout concluding with incestual rape, comes within inches of decimating the driver's side of my gorgeous green Jeep.

Now, the retarded, abortion surviving love child of Bubba Joe and Bobby Sue slams on her brakes, and sneers down her crooked beak of a witch nose at me and has the balls large enough to cause the suspension of her gasoline sucking, poison emitting Ford POS 150 to strain, to actually be mad at me. Somehow, this genetic reject finds in her the bile and audacity, shear fucking gall, to actually think I was at fault for her obvious and inevitable disastrous attempt at driving!

So taken aback was I that I was left speechless, forgetting for a moment someone would actually exist (and of course that she did, and in Rochester...) whose ill-formed gray matter could arrive at such a conclusion, but that I had just encountered her, and she was mad at me! This I will never be able to explain, nor comprehend, and despite generations of secluded and celibate monks (please note the paradox) dedicating their time to explaining such events with little avail, will never find the purpose for such an encounter.

After the effects of the wretched gaze, peppered with hate and served with a side plate of disgust, I opened my door, as the window would have taken too long, threw out my left hand, and gave her the Masshole salute, complete with a single finger flying high and a pronounced wave to announce to the line of cars behind me, I meant everything implied with the gesture with added hate and vengeance.

I doubt the bitch saw it, nor do I care. As far the universe is concerned, my actions were justified and order is now restored. Let this be only a single account to represent the hundreds of driving debacles I face each day, only a single testament to the horrid being known as a New York Driver. Powers That Be help us.

The names of the parties at fault were changed to protect the innocent, illustrate the level of perversion witnessed, and for your enjoyment.