As a foreword to this post, I'm going to come right out and admit that I am not especially suited for urban living. I hate people and think most of them are douchebags of one variety or another. As far as I'm concerned, we are still primates barely out of the trees, distracted by fancy toys.
I happen to live in a neighbourhood that is quiet (mostly), older (my house celebrates its centenary this year) and somewhat economically depressed (it's not surprising to find hookers on the corner three blocks south). As a result, several of the homes on our street are rental properties. I hate rental properties because, for the most part, the people who live in them are not invested in their environments and are generally gigantic asspains. I have, in the past, bitched long and loud about the dollar-store douchebags that specifically inhabit the basement directly across the street. First was Mohamed and his three cars and his propensity for throwing his garbage into the street. He was eventually replaced by Abdully, who was equally annoying (and, as it turns out, friends with Mohamed).
(And don't forget Moby Dick, who no longer lives across the street, but still comes by occasionally to visit the old lady and spit on the street.)
Currently residing in the basement of this joint is a fucking crevice tool who drives a massive, brand new Ford Mustang with an engine that can be heard all over the neighbourhood whenever he fires it up. It is clearly a violation of the noise bylaw passed a few years ago, largely to address the noise pollution issue of motorcycles on Whyte Avenue. I am tempted to report him, but the cops would have to be here when he starts it up, and the chances of that are pretty slim. You want to know what time this twunt-plunger goes to work in the morning? SIX THIRTY. You wanna know how I know that? Because I hear him fire that junk heap up every fuckin' morning at that time, and then I hear him pull away for at least two blocks.
I don't understand the need for a car this loud. A long-standing theory is that this vehicle is indicative of a certain insecurity regarding the size of his thrill drill. If the hyper-masculinity of the vehicle is in direct proportion to his inadequacy, then this ass cactus has a dick so inverted, it's gotta be a mangina.
Hence, I have dubbed him Mustang Sally.
I have never seen this mouth-breather with a woman. That's hardly surprising. The car is obviously a substitute for a significant other. In fact, I don't think Mustang Sally has ever been laid outside of a family reunion. He's just too fucking pathetic. I mean, we are talking about the kind of cacpygean microphallus that, in true Fast and Furious style, pulls doughnuts in the middle of the street in order to park his douchemobile.
I hate this guy and I fantasize about a litre of Coke in his gas tank or a potato in the exhaust pipe. I would never do these things, though, and if there is a positive aspect to the old rental property quandary, it's that eventually, the fucktards move on to be replaced by other fucktards.
Next on Douchebaggery Abounds, another of my charming neighbours.
I happen to live in a neighbourhood that is quiet (mostly), older (my house celebrates its centenary this year) and somewhat economically depressed (it's not surprising to find hookers on the corner three blocks south). As a result, several of the homes on our street are rental properties. I hate rental properties because, for the most part, the people who live in them are not invested in their environments and are generally gigantic asspains. I have, in the past, bitched long and loud about the dollar-store douchebags that specifically inhabit the basement directly across the street. First was Mohamed and his three cars and his propensity for throwing his garbage into the street. He was eventually replaced by Abdully, who was equally annoying (and, as it turns out, friends with Mohamed).
(And don't forget Moby Dick, who no longer lives across the street, but still comes by occasionally to visit the old lady and spit on the street.)
Currently residing in the basement of this joint is a fucking crevice tool who drives a massive, brand new Ford Mustang with an engine that can be heard all over the neighbourhood whenever he fires it up. It is clearly a violation of the noise bylaw passed a few years ago, largely to address the noise pollution issue of motorcycles on Whyte Avenue. I am tempted to report him, but the cops would have to be here when he starts it up, and the chances of that are pretty slim. You want to know what time this twunt-plunger goes to work in the morning? SIX THIRTY. You wanna know how I know that? Because I hear him fire that junk heap up every fuckin' morning at that time, and then I hear him pull away for at least two blocks.
I don't understand the need for a car this loud. A long-standing theory is that this vehicle is indicative of a certain insecurity regarding the size of his thrill drill. If the hyper-masculinity of the vehicle is in direct proportion to his inadequacy, then this ass cactus has a dick so inverted, it's gotta be a mangina.
Hence, I have dubbed him Mustang Sally.
I have never seen this mouth-breather with a woman. That's hardly surprising. The car is obviously a substitute for a significant other. In fact, I don't think Mustang Sally has ever been laid outside of a family reunion. He's just too fucking pathetic. I mean, we are talking about the kind of cacpygean microphallus that, in true Fast and Furious style, pulls doughnuts in the middle of the street in order to park his douchemobile.
I hate this guy and I fantasize about a litre of Coke in his gas tank or a potato in the exhaust pipe. I would never do these things, though, and if there is a positive aspect to the old rental property quandary, it's that eventually, the fucktards move on to be replaced by other fucktards.
Next on Douchebaggery Abounds, another of my charming neighbours.
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