Dear Fucknut,

You don’t know me, but I know you.

You see…

…I’m the poor bastard who had the privilege of driving behind your car today…

…on my motorcycle…

…on the highway.

And I hate you.

I hate the fact that I had to stare at your two kids in the backseat.

Not because they looked like the redheaded spawn of Satan…

…and not because they kept doing the “Beep your horn with the pull-down handle” arm-motion…

(seriously…I’m on a fucking motorcycle NOT a goddamn 18-wheeler…do your kids actually go to fucking school or are you driving them to detox?)

No, I hate you because as you drove in front of me at 80 miles an hour…

…your little shithead kids were obviously able to annoy me relentlessly…

…because they were unbuckled.

This means I know at least one thing about you without ever having to meet you:

You’re. Fucking. Stupid.

Realizing this, I should have seen what was coming:

Lit cigarette flung out your driver’s side window.



Right off my facemask…

…and onto my lap.

Thank you.

Nothing like catching on fire on the way to work to start your fucking day.


Wife: “How’s was your day?”


Wife: “That’s good. It’s trash day, don’t forget.”

Jesus H. Christ.

Even when melted, I can’t catch a fucking break.

Back to you, Mr. Driver McAsswipe…

Were you done?


Apparently – and, oh, lucky me…

…your windshield was dirty.

What better time to clean your fucking windshield then on the highway at 80 miles an hour with me behind you on a motorcycle?

Yeah, I can’t think of one, either.

On the bright side:

I now smell of lemony freshness!

Plus, you managed to douse the fire in my balls with the cascading waterfall of windshield washer fluid you hosed on me.

Many thanks.

I, in turn, have repaid you in kind.

When you ask your little kids where they learned how to give the finger to someone, you’ll have me to thank.

You’re welcome.

Drive safely.



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