check your sugarcoat at the door

this’ll probably get me beat

I’m really, truly, not usually this sour. I’ve been ranting a lot lately and I blame the difference between the record breaking October highs and humidity in Florida and the pouring, freezing rain that greeted me when I arrived in California on Tuesday night. It has induced a ranting frenzy that should wear its course shortly and I’ll be back to my people-lovin’ self.

You know those nutsack truck accessories? Go ahead and Google it. I’ll wait.

No one on the good, green Earth has or ever will think that you are any tougher, cooler, stronger or more masculine because you affixed a dangling sack under your truck. It does not represent your own, shriveled up and stinking, because you’re totally the type of dude that gets sack funk. No one single woman or gay man in existence has ever desired your rotting sack.

All that you’ve shown is that the effort it requires to attach the stupid fucking accessory to your vehicle is not beyond you. High fucking five, stud. That effort is comparable to hanging an ornament on a Christmas tree.

Which my six-year-old daughter can do.
Blindfolded.
If she was born with no arms.

You know who I hope owns a company that produces those? One of those impossible, man-hating feminists. Who is making a fuckin’ asston of green off of your stupidity. Profiting off of the pre-programmed way that you avoid thinking with the big head.

You look silly and disgusting parading that thing down the 405 freeway. No one will ever take you seriously and in fact, you should hit the five freeway at some point, take it down along the ocean, and fucking drown yourself.

Douche.

-CJ

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