April 19th, 2002

Grrr!, Dammit!

Sickamore

IT IS A FUCKING CAR. YOU GET IN IT. YOU DRIVE.

FUCK REGISTRATION.

FUCK INSURANCE. I have to pay because other people can't drive?

You have not SEEN me behind the wheel. It is physical perfection. It's like a miracle. It's like that moment where Conan picked up his sword, or Hendrix his axe, and said, "Yes. This is what I was meant to do."

All this is before I've even gone to the DMV. My boss tells me now I can't have Tuesday off. Nevermind that my coworker called in "sick" today because she went drinking last night and wanted to enjoy the sun today. I hope it takes SIX hours and I don't get to come into work until two in the afternoon.

BEEN TO HELL AND I SPELL IT
I SPELL IT DMV
AND ANYONE WHO'S BEEN THERE
KNOWS PRECISELY WHAT I MEAN
I STOOD IN LINE AND WAITED
AND SURPRESSED THE URGE TO SCREAM
AND IF I HAD MY DRUTHERS
I'D SCREW A CHIMPANZEE
I CALL IT pointless...

You fools have no understanding of the art of the car. None. Morons.
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