Upon entering my final year at UT, I give been given a monumental strike in the face by not my professors, not by those I have familiar relations with, or even the depraved, scum-of-the-earth, and inadequate Buckeye souls leeching across Austin one foul weekend. No, I was horribly and brutally psychologically molested by not one, but TWO severely demented individuals on the streets of Austin, Texas right here on campus. These two occurrences both happened when I was traveling in my very AUDIBLE and VISIBLE 2001 Saturn SL.
After having experienced these degrading and bewildering actions of two genuine cock-gobblers, I am convinced that I will soon be investing in a shotgun, Desert Eagle .50, katana, crossbow or some other variation of weaponry that will quickly and efficiently enable myself to demolish a foe. The following is an account of the events that pursued me to jot down this note for the entire world to see (probably more like two people though).
FIRST RETARD I ENTOUNTER: So I am pulling out of my apartment parking lot onto Rio Grande Street, bumping to the tunes of one rapper T.I.—good riding music, economical bass lines with a lyricist generating great floetry coupled with nice adlibs, a man who is all about his hustle. So, I am about to merge onto Rio Grande Street, a street that is ONE WAY. The cappage of this last sentence was intentional due to its paramount significance to the catastrophic events that ensue. I start to accelerate when this fucking D-Bag comes out of nowhere on a BIKE, speeding right across the frontside of my vehicle. He is going the WRONG way down a ONE WAY street, causing me to hit the brakes just before I NAIL his ass. Not only this, but he is only visible after he passes an Excursion (or my punned Absurd-sions) parked on the street in front of the parking lot. So this joke pops out like a goddamn Will Arnett Arrested Development magic trick, and then (this is the best part) yells at me as he continues down his path…
He makes this face, you know the face, the “what-the-fuck” face. It was a face you would see on contestants if Pat Sajak drop-kicked Vanna White, a face a mother would make if a circus clown took advantage of her adopted child Timmy, a face after just getting nailed right in the balls by your best friend. But no, tard made the face as he went the wrong way past a merging vehicle, affirming my belief that most Austin bikers are psychotic and delusional, while they fulfill the notion they straddle a fine line between pedestrian and car-driver, in a class of their own. Faster than walking humans, not as fast as cars, with stop signs or yield signs holding zero significance.
This douche had an oblong-shaped head, you know, the kind you’d pay to kick. I’m pissed beyond belief, not so much at him, but pissed I didn’t floor the accelerator allowing my hood to penetrate his pelvis. Pissed I didn’t leap out and roundhouse his cranium. Pissed I didn’t yell out “I’m this close to RAPING YOU” and then burn down his house. Oh, the most ironic part, he was wearing a HELMET…
SECOND NAZI: Wesley travels down Guadalupe, bumping to the tunes of Imogen Heap. Incredible vocalist, beats are varied and encompass a wide range of instruments. I’m in the left lane when a vomit-hued SUV peels off from a side street in front of me and to my left. He turns left to merge with Guadalupe NOT when the coast is clear, but right when Wesley is in direct line of collision. I slam my hand on the horn like I’m reviving Mark Mangino from a third tier heart attack. He stops in the middle of the street, facing cars coming the wrong way on him. I pass. He peels off into my lane. Right now, you know, I’m cool, I’m collective, not about to do anything irrational, simply thinking what a notorious pedophile this guy must be. So now I pull into the left lane to turn on Dean Keaton. As I’m stopped there, this uni-browed hooligan continues down the center lane. I turn to look at him. He turns to look at me.
And then he does it.
The ultimate insult specifically crafted when you’re in a vehicle and can’t shout obscenities. He gives me the finger. The finger. And he doesn’t just flip me off, and politely turn to the steering wheel. Oh no. He gives me the finger LONG and HARD. I’m sitting there and as he passes the intersection, well after he has passed me, he’s still holding it out there for everyone to see, even shaking it occasionally, giving it a little shake, some shaking action.
What the fuck???!!!!
What did I do? I gave HIM the finger. What the fuck was I supposed to do? My balls were in a salad shooter! The finger is the only rebuttal you can give when you’re trapped in a car. And then if you’re the second person to do it, it sucks pure ass because it’s like I’m sac-riding his finger. There aren’t any other insults I could do…I couldn’t lift up my shirt and be like, “You know what, you know what, SUCK MY BACK!”
So I give him the finger hard, harder than I’ve ever done it. I give the finger so hard my knuckles turn white, I’m doing it harder than the fuckin Mooninites in Aqua Teen, I give it until I’m so enraged I’m bleeding from the eyes.
I’m sick of douches on this campus thinking they own everything—they’re all pussies.
So how about this—next time somebody does something wildly retarded on the street, they’re getting knocked the fuck out.
To summarize perfectly, I quote Mr. Jermaine Dupri:
“Act like a trick, and like a trick you’ll get dealt with.”
Thank you for your time
-W
