How to be an asshole on 500 minutes a day.

So. Funny story.

I technically should be doing school work rather than writing this right now.

But I’m quite pissed off right now, and if I don’t get this out of my head and into pixilated form, I’m never going to concentrate.

I finally got out of class this morning, only to find that it was now 20 degrees colder outside with a wind that could blow out a napalm blaze. As I stood outside of Taylor, I pulled out a c. nail, as is my post-class modus operandi, and, as if on cue in a bad Ben Stiller movie (you know, the one that they keep remaking where he just get screwed over for a good 90 or so minutes), the wheel pops out of the lighter.

“Fuck,” I say to myself, “It’s going to be one of those days.”

So I walked down the hill toward the nearest bus stop; I wasn’t about to fight the wind all the way home. As I walk up to the stop, about ten feet away, the bus pulls away.

I waited at the stop anyway, back to the wind so that in five minutes I could still feel my face. Not feeling your face outside in Ohio during Jan. through April is not that quasi-euphoria of “holy shit I just blew a fat rail of coke and therefore cannot feel my face, throat, hunger or guilt.” No, it is more of a “holy hell, was that ice crunching under my boot or did my nose just crack the fuck off” kind of feeling.

After what seems like forever (or a couple of Mogwai songs, give or take), the bus finally pulls up, and it’s one of those new ones that PARTA must’ve splurged on recently.

I get on, thanking the skies or whatever lurks up there that I’m finally in the presence of a working heater on wheels. The bus pulls up to the next stop, lets some people off, and continues on.

Nobody pulled the cord for the next stop, and since nobody’s waiting in the Circle K parking lot, the bus driver stays in the left lane and keeps going. Right as we get up to the corner of Wilson Ave. and Rt. 59, this piece of shit in a piece of shit Caddie decides that, with the bus a million miles away (read: ten feet), he obviously had more than enough time to write a compelling spy novel, jerk off and solve the insurgency problem in the Middle East Boy Scout-style with only a paperclip and a piece of chewing gum.

AssHat White-Trash McMullet The WonderBilly decides to pull out of tha’ T-Bell in his trailer-trash-fabulous rust-box and chug by at half the speed of a broken-down lawn tractor, blingin’ it oxidation and bad paint job style … TEN FEET AWAY FROM THE FUCKING BUS!

So take a guess at what our genius of a fellow citizen was doing while he was driving.

Lighting a bowl? Nope. I could have half-way respected that one.

Scratching his balls? Nah. I think liking country music shrinks your testicles faster than steroids could ever do the testicular disappearing trick.

Changing his radio station? Take another stab.

Talking on a cell phone?

DING DING DING!!! We have a winner, come on down, voice in my head that advises me to just start killing dumb fucks like this.

I mean, honestly, do they even give a driving test anymore?

Do you have at least one opposible thumb?

Check.

Do you have feet?

Check.

Do you have an IQ at least marginally above broccoli (read: 7 IQ points)?

Check.

Well, off ya go!

This inbred, short-end-of-the-synapse-stick piece of Grade-A American DNA-piss has his cell phone glued to his hear-hole. Most likely talking to his rasslin’ partnah ‘bout that fine young piece of ass he has back home that eats cans and shits pellet-piles (for the slow: I’m making a sex-with-a-goat joke; edgy and original, I know.)

The bus driver hits the brakes. I fight the urge to piss myself. The girl next to me asks nobody in particular wtfuck this dumbass is doing. And we come about maybe three feet from T.J. getting a brand-spanking-new concussion from the shiny new handhold next to the door.

This was my near death experience of the day. Hopefully I’ve filled my quota.

So I get off the bus at Starbucks. I get on my knees. I kiss the ground. And I walk into Campus Book and Supply to get a RockStar.

I set the R.S. down on the counter, and as the lady is trying to scan it I look at the pile of Daily Kent Staters sitting next to the adjacent register.

The first thing I see:

I’m disappointed, Daily Kent Stater. Go sit in time-out.

If this pisses you off as much as it does me, fire an e-mail to editor@stater.edu. Printing an article giving “tips” on how to be a little less of a shitty driver while being a shitty driver is socially irresponsible and just all out repre-fucking-hensible.

/Jesus Christ … personal responsibility just bought the farm.

//back to work.