I HATE DRIVING.
Do you know how you know that you're going to be in for a shitty commute?
You're on a back road with a 30 mph speed limit.
(for those of you on the metric system, you can go blow monkeys, because I'm not converting this shit for you)
30 mph speed limit.
There's a car in front of you.
It's a Buick.
It's a GREEN Buick.
Me: "Oh. No."
You look at the license plate.
It's a "Veteran" plate.
It's a "Veteran" VANITY plate.
Me: "Why, God? Why?"
It's a "Veteran" vanity plate that says:
Fuck all that is fuckable.
This ride is GONNA SUCK.
30 mph would have been doubling my speed.
At one point, I believe a crippled turtle passed me in the shoulder.
The worst part was that all the while, I'm in my car SCREAMING:
"MOVE YOUR GODDAMN WRINKLY ASS, GAMPY!!"
Move. Your Goddamn. Wrinkly ass.
If I wasn't going to Hell before...
...screaming at the top of my lungs at a war-veteran-proud-grandfather affectionately known to his grandkids as "Gampy"...
...pretty much cements it.
Plus, I felt stupid yelling "Gampy."
Friggin' vanity plates.
I hate them.
Screw him, too....you know, for making me yell the word, "Gampy" let alone yelling it with swear words.
He made me do it.
Him and his damn Buick.
At least that's what I'll tell St. Peter.