By On the occasion of our 20th anniversary
By Gustavo Arellano
By R. Scott Moxley
By Alfonso Delgado
By Courtney Hamilton
By Joel Beers
By Peter Maguire
By Charles Lam
To the blond circus freak pushing a stroller in Anaheim: You didn’t seem to care for me using the crosswalk while I was riding my bicycle, so you yelled after me, “Hey, Buddy, blah blah blah.” First off, I’m not your “buddy.” With those attention-whore tattoos all over your arms, torso and neck, be assured we have nothing in common, unless the head janitor assigned you to clean up the public toilet I used the previous day. Second, as long as I yield to pedestrians, the law’s on my side. You likely wouldn’t know much about the law, as I’m thinking you got your lowlife tattoos in prison—the same place where you met the guy who knocked you up. Doesn’t he now work at the Jiffy Lube I take my Lexus to?
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This column appeared in print as "Class Warfare! Fuck, Yeah!"