Bumper Stickers

There is nothing that screams “I’m white trash”, “I’m a raging liberal” or “I’m living vicariously through my kids” more than a fucking bumper sticker. In my opinion, if you are advertising anything other than an Alma Mater, sports team, or Old Glory on your vehicle, you might as well drive that piece of shit straight off of a cliff [Right. Now.].

Maybe I’m being callous or shallow towards the obese woman in the ‘98 Ford Taurus with mismatched doors. But if I’m stuck behind you at a red light, the first thing my eyes latch on to is that abominable advertisement: "My Daughter is an Honor Role Student”. I’m glad you had the audacity to slap that sucker on your loosely attached bumper for all to see [Yes, it was spelled “role”, not “roll”]. And even if your daughter, God bless her soul, is an honor roll student, I’m sure she doesn’t want her mother advertising it to the rest of the human world. So rip that fucking thing off, fix your sputtering hunk of shit, and get out of my way.

Adults living vicariously through their kids is something that really chaps my ass. But nothing pisses me off more than when I’m changing lanes on the Interstate [it’s an expressway—>blow me], than when “The Intimidator” immediately cuts me off. [Check it.] I’m talking about the overblown "3” merging right in front of me as if he’s taking turn 3 at the Daytona 500 [is 3 a coincidence or what?]. For the common man, a simple turn signal would suffice. Not Cletus Mayne [made up name]. That cocksucker takes over my lane with his rusted Ford Ranger spitting fumes at me just so I can bow down to the 3. And while I’m stuck staring at that sorry excuse of an homage to a dead guy, I might as well wave to the 4 Mexicans hunkered down in the back of the truck bed [Hypothetical, extremely racist, situation].

Even still, it does get worse. I want to saw my hand off with a rusty butter knife every time I’m stuck at a red light, waiting patiently in the right lane, and the asshole in front of me is going straight [What a dick!]. Now, I have to wait an extra minute and 45 seconds behind this libbed-out Prius and… Oh! Oh! Bumper sticker. “Coexist”, huh? Go fuck yourself. I have two dogs. I used to have a parakeet. I do “coexist” [minus the Buddhist shit and Star of David]. I went to a Catholic High School, OK? That’s the definition of “coexisting”. We had the one Jew, maybe 3 Hindus, and a couple of Asians that probably practiced Taoism or Taekwon-do. So don’t patronize me on my knowledge of world religions, I aced that shit [different teacher from first blog entrance]. Just take your electric go-cart and keep driving left, because that rainbow sticker next to “OBAMA RULES” does not allow you to go to the right [Ever].

I know I’m not the only one that thinks about some of this shit while driving, but I’ll gladly be the one to write it. And I don’t usually have road rage, I promise. This stuff only happens between 8 AM and 10 PM. I assure you I’m not racist, homophobic, or biased in any way [well, maybe biased]. I don’t hate NASCAR. I do, however, HATE people that try to influence me by sticking a blatantly obtrusive, hideous piece of paper on their car. Keep that shit to yourselves people; that’s what Twitter is for.