[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.
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