Old Skool MoFo: a Minivan Tale

(Yet another reader-submitted story, this time by Crazy Es more-often-than-not partner in crime, Sparky.)

We all understand the beef that mofos have with SUVs, but I have to say… minivan drivers are just as bad, if not worse. Most people driving minivans are “soccer moms” driving their little shits around town, or limp dick fathers who have forfeited the pants in the family to their wives.

So I’m sitting behind one of these aforementioned nutless wonders in the left turn lane during rush hour. The opposing traffic has cleared, and he has ample time to turn. So I wait… wait… and wait. No dice. Finally, fed up with his crap, I just turn from behind him. And sure enough, at this exact time he chooses to do the same. Oblivious bitch. So I floor the gas pedal of my V6 engine and cut him off, as I need to turn into the bowling alley parking lot, the first driveway on the right.

Well, perhaps sacking up for the first time in his life, the cocksmear has the audacity to follow me into the parking lot. As my driving skills often result in my being followed, I take no alarm and begin to have fun with him. Despite the pleading of the apple pie in the passenger seat, I begin speeding up in the parking lot, then slamming on my brakes, taking turns fast but going really slow on the straightaways. Now, I have no problem with a little parking lot fun, but in addition to perturbing me with his stunt in the turning lane, I find out this guy is a middle aged man putting his kids in danger by driving like me. I felt that his actions called for a little mofo enforcement. So I drive more unsafely than he dared, and eventually lose him, but at the same time, keep track of where he parks in the lot. Once I see him walking into the bowling alley, I drive up to his car. I see that the self centered whore took up two spaces.

Now I’m really pissed.

I park my car several aisles away to prevent retribution, and calmly walk to his. I think to myself, “this man most likely keeps a spare tire,” so I release the air from not one, but two tires. This would require the service of the Auto Club, if he was even lucky enough to be a member. In addition, as a crowning triumph and as salt in the wound, I affix a KIIS FM bumper sticker to his hood, which I had perchance picked up at Raging Waters the previous day. I’m confident the afternoon sun made the decal a permanent fixture on his bitchmobile.

And It’s Like That

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