So you wake up late on a Monday, and then still hit the snooze, knowing all too well the extra 15 minutes you just bought yourself in dreamland will be the reason why you’re late to work and will ultimately not end in a dream blow job. But you do it anyway because frankly you’re pretty goddamn lazy.
You frantically get ready, almost set the dog, house, yourself and shower on fire in the process of the human sized fiery hurricane that had become your morning, all because you really thought you could get that dream blow job. “Well dude”, you say to yourself in an obnoxious surfer dude accident, “on one hand it’s just a dream, but on the other it’s still more action then you’ve gotten in the last eight months.” (You say eight months to make yourself feel better, but we’re talking years here)
Leaving the house and forgetting everything important behind, but it’s Monday so like anyone is really expecting you of all people to be ready. Not like Mondays are the weekly staff meetings first thing in the morning or anything.
Then you realize leaving late might of actually been a blessing in disguise, since you left at a later time, all the suckers who woke up on time are already at work and being productive members of society.
Though as it turns out, every person on the planet thought of this idea the night before, have planned on leaving later for this reason and you just coincidentally stumbled into it in your blind stupidity, and the aforementioned rest of the population of the planet, who are all smarter than you, are all going in the same direction as you, but making that one left turn before you make yours.
So you get onto the freeway, that isn’t technically a freeway because it’s a 45 mph zone, but everyone goes at least 65 anyway, expect for the one intersection with a red light camera that everyone slows done to 20 for because no one trusts a machine to judge how fast the machine they’re currently in is traveling, especially in regards to the difference between how fast the machine you are traveling is saying and how fast the evil camera machine run by fascist says you are going.
So rolling through the one intersection with a camera you then find yourself behind a mini-van with only one brake light, and by “find yourself behind” you actually slam on your breaks as hard as you can and pray to the first deity that comes to mind, which interestingly enough is the Prophet Mohammed. The reason for the braking and the sudden conversion to Islam is because the mini-van with the broken brake lights, has working turn signals, and didn’t bother using them. So you’re all busy cussing at the Nazi camera about how the role of the government is to encourage the improvement of the people as suppose to the other way around, and how the holocaust was not cool at all, this mass of metal designed by the most boring living beings in existence pulls in front of you as if you were the Titanic and this hunk of metal was an iceberg that you had no chance to see because you were busy watching Leonardo DeCaprio make out with some rich red head as you wish that you could have someone to share intimate moments with, as suppose to wishing for the occasional dream blow job.
Now stuck behind the mini-van you hear the ever faint sound of an Italian super car on your left side, and as the sound comes closer and closer to you, the noise disintegrates and becomes the death-bellows of a poor early 90′s model Honda civic which has had its muffler removed, as been given oversized rear wheels, and rear bumper removed and then placed on the trunk as a spoiler all in the name of making the driver feel like he was starring in Fast and Furious: Tokyo Drift, which in your opinion, was the weakest movie of the franchise so far.
The death howl coming from the poor car wishing for the sweet release of death continues louder as it struggles to up shift into a higher gear to match you at a mere 35 mph, and then it suddenly downshifts so rapidly and falls back into the abyss of the road behind you to the point where it once again sounds like a Ferrari making sweet beautiful love to a Lamborghini and creating a new car that ends the family rivalry that had torn the country sides of Italy apart for generations, much like how you wished Romeo and Juliet to have ended, if it didn’t involve so much implied statutory rape.
And this cycle continues until the heat death of the universe. As the mini-van in front of you constantly swerves in and out of your lane and hits the brakes on on off to point where you are now convinced that the driver of the mini-van is actually ridding their brakes and the last brake light is just flickering on and off as the last of it’s bulbs die. This is then scored by the sound of the constant cycle of birth and near death that the Honda Civic next to you is experiencing as the driver is still attempting to get his poor steed up to 10 mph under the speed limit.
This is when you realize that the only people who drive loud Honda Civics are high school students compensating for their small teenaged penises. So you then conclude that the guy to your left is simply a 17 year-old who actually has a shower but says it’s a grower, and then you realize that it’s past 8:30 on a Monday and that every school in a 80 mile radius of you has started. You then think to yourself, who the hell is driving that soon to be dead Civic, glancing to your left as you hit the brakes to avoid rear ending the mini-van for the 20th time in the past quarter mile, you see the outline of a large set man in his mid-30′s driving the Civic with the bold termination of a fighter pilot in the first world war.
And you feel better about yourself because your life is ultimately much better than his by any comparison, though considering this is you we’re talking about, he has probably got more action than you, since any positive number is greater than zero, so you let him win that round but take the win through averaging out the rest of the scores, mainly being you’re not a guy in your mid-30′s driving the saddest Honda Civic in existence.
The mini-van then pulls off to the right and then uses a bike lane as a turn lane and leaves behind a chorus of car horns as it used its left turn signal to show the world that it is in fact crossing three lanes of busy traffic to the right. You then question the theory of natural selection for how a collection of genes that bad had somehow manifested in a species going on its 10 millionth year.
You now realize that you have 20 minutes to cover an area that normally takes you 40 by this point, but luckily for you, you have build up a resistance to the mini-van and have taken the opportunity to move to the front of the lane as the rest of the cars still recover from the great wave of what could have only been described as the largest wave of human ignorance to those around oneself since Mel Gibson walked into the Holocaust Memorial Museum in Washington DC thinking that it was an AA meeting that served margaritas.
The Civic had disappeared into the chaotic aftermath of the mini-van’s right turn, or what could only be assumed to be a right turn, the mini-van might of accidentally stumbled into a new direction along that the z-axis that had been previously unknown to mankind.
You think that with your new found ability to now be able to go, not just the speed limit, but beyond the speed limit, that you’ll be able to make your Monday morning meeting. But then, like a shark moving through the ocean waters ready to eat any late night skinny dippers in the opening of a monster movie directed by the same guy who made a comedy about World War II, a Toyota Prius moves from the right and into the lane in front of you, and then darts back into the wave of motorized humanity to your right.
Because as you have learned, people who drive Priuses are the most aggressive drivers in existence. You think it’s because they believe that since they drive a hybrid that they are inherently better than everyone else and therefore everyone around them will move out of the way for them, which they do, but not for the worship of a vagina on wheels, but because they don’t want to get into a car accident, especially with an asshole who drives a Prius.
So you try to avoid the Prius as much as possible, who is at least polite enough to use his turn-signal, right as he enters your lane in front of you. But as you struggle to pick up the speed, the Captain Planet fanfic writer piloting the Prius sees your defiance to the almighty god of hybrid technology and eco-boost engines and descends upon you like a lion onto a baby zebra.
But you’re no baby zebra, you’re in your mom’s 2012 Camaro with a grand total of 19 mpg, 6 cylinders, and 304 horsepower, and you push the gas pedal to the floor and leave the chi-tea drinker behind in a whirlwind of vaporized dead dinosaurs to the sound of a bald eagle taking flight over the great plains of Nebraska. (In this case it sounded like a red-tailed hawk, as bald eagles are very quiet birds and make more of a chirping sound then a majestic bird-roar like diving hawks)
Then you’re victory over the future of car manufacturing comes to a close as the cop car that was behind you the whole time speeds up to you, gets on your left (which you’re not sure how considering you’ve been in the left lane the whole time since you need to make a left turn to get to work), and rolls down his window on the passenger side.
He then sees that you are in fact a white male and presumably heterosexual (he’s not one to judge, but your lack of fashion sense says it all) and instead of pulling you over, throws you an unlit joint, gives you a wink, and then has his K9 patrol companion in the passenger seat light it for you. The three of you share a quick laugh at 85 mph in a 45, and he then speeds off and pulls over someone who is not a white heterosexual male for going four over.
The joint takes the edge off, as you finally make your left turn at the intersection past the strip club/school bus stop (you’re in that part of town) and it almost helps you tolerate the kid behind you with the biggest shit eating grin ever seen on a human since Mel Gibson did eventually find his way to that AA meeting with the margaritas.
You then wonder again why there’s kids on the road, clearly the age to be in high school, not currently in high school right now. And then you start to cry in a preemptive quarter life crisis as you slowly come to realize that you are in fact growing into an adult. Not even the rest of the joint from the police officer helps you get over the comparisons you’re making between yourself and your parents when they were at your current age.
Yes they did in fact get married, receive bachelors degrees, find stable jobs, buy a house, and have a kid within the next 7 years of your current age.
You then pull into the company parking lot, not worrying about red eye since the amount of crying you did on the way over made up for it all. You did in fact make it on time for the meeting.
Yeah childhood is over and no one bothered to throw a party, suck it up.
Blaze it.
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