[Hey, You!] Where the Rubber Meets the Roadster
After a night of emotionally draining personal tragedy, I walk out my front door to let my dog poop while I smoke a cigarette, and what do I have waiting for me? A used condom, complete with fluids draining from said item, on the hood of my car, which was parked on the street. At first, I look to the sky and pump my fist, demanding to know why I deserve the myriad of life’s misfortunes that I’ve been dealt. But then I started to think about it, and as I was picking up your discarded rubber with a used grocery bag, I started to feel sorry for you, your partner and your disgusting, vile act. Either you and your partner are such losers that you don’t even have a home to have sex in, or you are total tools who have to do it in a car. At least, after all is said and done, I still have my own house, with a bedroom to have sex in and a toilet to flush my condoms down. You are both disgusting, dirty douchebags, and I hope you ended up with some really nasty stains that won’t come out of your own car’s upholstery.
Send anonymous thanks, confessions or accusations—changing or deleting the names of the guilty and innocent—to “Hey, You!” c/o OC Weekly, 2975 Red Hill Ave., Ste. 150, Costa Mesa, CA 92626, or e-mail us at firstname.lastname@example.org.
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