I’d always thought that bile was greenish, but it turns out that it’s brownish. No matter; you’re still going to get a dose of it.
Oh, it’s not your fault. Maybe. Or maybe it is. But let’s assume that it isn’t, and that you’re completely innocent, and have done nothing to warrant this assault. Fine. You might be a fine, upstanding individual, but from here, from where I’m sitting, you’re just another member of the great, seething mass of people. Nasty, vicious, stupid, selfish people. But I’m going to distill you into one person. And you’re it.
You’re the one who has the burning, throbbing-genital need to slam your car in front of mine. Oh, you can’t be bothered to merge behind me, where you’re supposed to be you damned wretch; no, you’re either too oblivious or too arrogant to know your proper place, and therefore screw me over, secure that the odds are good that I’ll get out of the way of your soul-sucking SUV, and that I can only wish that my car had a 20mm cannon full of armor-piercing shells that would rip through your bloated vehicle like it was so much tinfoil, leaving you with a surprised expression on your once smug, corpulent face.
But instead, I have to gaze upon your insipid sticker of Calvin peeing on something, which only further proves what a wretched, mouthbreathing ape that you are. Rest assured that Stephen Hawking does not have a sticker of Calvin peeing on Kepler on the side of his wheelchair.
Maybe a NASCAR sticker for good measure? But we’ve already established that you’re an idiot, haven’t we?
And then, to test my levels of animosity, you’re probably the type to come to a complete stop when confronted by speed bumps, aren’t you? You halt, and then creep over them, as if your car was so fragile and/or expensive that you couldn’t possibly even drive over the things at speeds measured in anything more than centimeters per minute. And you probably use centimeters to measure things, don’t you, in some attempt to affect European snobbery. You snotty little bastard. Everything about you is repellent, especially your reeking cologne.
Or do you smoke? You pathetic waste. Why not just gargle hot tar and get it over with, saving the rest of us from having to deal with your putrid almost-corpse. And you hang your filthy cigarette out your window as you drive, don’t you? Which forces me to stab for the button to close my car’s vents, so that I don’t have to smell the wretched stench. Oh, I do hate you, you scraggly, pustulent, self-centered bastard. Smokers should only be allowed to drive hermetically sealed cars, with windows that can’t be opened. Don’t like it? Bah! What do I care for your likes, you who care nothing for mine? Stew in your own filth, pig! And just be glad that we have not yet instituted public floggings for people as horribly malevolent as yourself.
You whistle, too, don’t you? Does your evil know no bounds? Nails ground to the quick on blackboards is more pleasing than the sound of whistling!
You sniveling, gormless bastard.