You were the fat, ugly, oily faced, chain-smoking bitch riding shotgun in that Cheddar-ball “race car” (a neon-yellow Pontiac Solstice) with the New Jersey plates. I was the guy driving behind you. As we drove, I watched as you continually flicked ashes and cigarette butts out the window. What is it with fuckers like you, anyway? Do you expect the rest of the world to clean up after you? The last thing California needs is MORE pollution; after all, we wouldn’t want to end up like New Jersey, the armpit of America! But when I stopped next to you, rolled down my window and said something along the lines of “Hey, if you’re going to visit all the way from Jersey, the least you could do is not fuck up our state by throwing your cigarette butts all over our streets!” you didn’t even have the (proverbial) nuts to meet my gaze. No, you and your rolls of fat just sat there, practically drooling on yourself, staring straight ahead with an empty-headed look on your face. I might as well have been speaking Swahili, I suppose. Do us all a favor and go back to New Jersey . . . and, for the love of God, please don’t reproduce!
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