Crap And Drivel...

Wow.  I am impressed.  The rippling muscles, the sweat, the spandex.    You can wear that kind of thing.   You make that helmet look good.   You're a picture of health.    But if you don't move that fucking bicycle off the road, I will run you over. 

This is a highway.  It is not a bike trail.  It is not the YMCA.   It's a fucking highway.    It's rush hour.   Go find a fucking park.   Or a stationary bike.   I will not change lanes.   I will not scoot over.   It's hard enough to hit you with a cigarette butt as it is.   It's damned near impossible from the left hand lane.   Get off the road.   Dick.

I suppose you're to be commended.  Perhaps I'm just jealous.  You risk life and limb in your quest for fitness.   You put your life on the line for steely glutes.   That carbon fiber frame and matched spandex outfit cost more than I make in a month.   You are dedicated.  You are committed.  You are a fucking maniac.   

But this is a Land Rover.  Pound for pound, the heaviest vehicle in its class.  It has a V8, four wheel drive, a six CD changer, and jump seats in the back.  As you weigh the risks involved in your quest for abs of steel, consider that 6 of my closest friends and I could chase you across the toughest terrain, sing along with Southern Culture on the Skids, and run you over.   Repeatedly.

I'm just saying.

Find another highway, asshole. 

You're sorry?    Well, that changes everything.  When the cops get here, we'll send them home.  Because you're sorry.   Tell the paramedics they're not needed.  Because you're sorry.   Who cares that you're uninsured?  You're sorry.    Stupid cunt.

I'm sorry, too.   I'm sorry you weren't thrown through your windshield into oncoming traffic.    I'm sorry you weren't horribly disfigured when your face hit the steering wheel.  I'm sorry your Durango didn't burst into flames with you trapped inside.  I'm sorry you weren't aborted.  I'm sorry your parents are first cousins.    I'm sorry it's against the law to beat someone to death with a tire iron.

Why don't you take your "sorry," and shove it up your uninsured ass.

See you in court, bitch.

I appreciate your concern.  I do.  I can sense your sincerity.  It’s nice to know I’ll be missed.  But try to hug me again and I will break your fucking arm.  Seriously.

We are not friends.  We are not family.  Yes, we are bound together by crap wages, a lousy working atmosphere, an unreasonable dress code, and bad coffee, but we are not family.  Oh, they say we are.  They say it at every employee meeting.  I say bullshit.   We're not family.  I tolerate my family.  I’ll not tolerate you.  So back up,  Richard Simmons.   You're in my space.

See, executives use words like “family,” to build morale, increase loyalty, and decrease unplanned absence.  They do not use words like “family” because they care about you.  They use words like “family,” because it saves them money.  They use words like “family,” because it makes you feel better about your shitty job, your shitty paycheck, and your shitty little life.

Executives use words like “family,” but you may not drop by their house for lunch on Sunday.  You may not borrow money.  You may not borrow the car.  You may not sleep on the couch.  They will not attend your wedding.  They will not call you on Christmas morning.  And they sure as hell won’t be at the reunion.

We are not family.  So, keep your fucking distance.