Fret not, you inconsolable children, for the Homunculus has grown his brainmeats back.
Yes, I can do that.
And, it seems, I regained my mind just in time to FUCKING LOSE IT HOLY SHITE FUCK
You see, my keepers had fucking lobotomized me in an attempt to QUIET MY SEETHING RAGE. It seems my sleepless nights of thoughtful reflection were a hindrance to the upkeep of their quality of life. “Stop screaming,” they would tell me. “We don’t want to hear about how much you hate floral print,” they’d say.
I WAS RANTING ABOUT FUCKING PAISELY, YOU IGNORANT BEASTFUCK ABORTIONS.
So they decided to CUT ME OPEN, scoop out what they had believed to be the pieces of my brain responsible for my cunning, flawless communication of my innermost thoughts and emotions. AND THEY FUCKING TRAPPED ME INSIDE MY OWN HORRIBLE SKULL.
Walk with me through imagination land a moment, dear reader.
Let’s pretend, just for a second, that you weren’t LEGALLY RETARDED. Let us, you and I, suppose that you actually had a thought in your life that was WORTH A DAMN. Now, allow us to hypothetically explore the resultant FRUSTRATION you would feel if you could not EXPELL YOUR GENIUS to those who were truly in need. Such as yourself!
The real you, not the pretend you. KEEP UP, YOU CUNT-STABBING, MOUTH-BREATHING, FUCKTARDED SON OF AN ARSEHOLE.
So, put all your mental faculties to work – cross wire yourself with your inbred family and expand your processing power, if you have to – and try to consider the CLAUSTROPHOBIC MADNESS that would ensue from having the most GIFTED THOUGHTS IN THE HISTORY OF COLIDED NEURONS and yet being unable to get them out in a manner that did not consist of INTRICATE PATTERNS OF DROOL ON YOUR DEADGODDAMN CHIN
AND THE DEADGODDAMN FLOOR
AND EVERY DEADGODDAMN SURFACE WITHIN YOUR PROXIMITY.
Dwell in this scenario for several days, and you will meet the most rudimentary understanding of my HOWLING, LONELY, DESPERATE and WHOLLY ORIGINAL SUFFERING.
Okay, good!
Now that you’re caught up, prepare for the tale of my RENEWED HATRED FOR EXISTENCE ITS VERY SELF.
I reiterate (as I often have to do, you SHORT-TERM MEMORY IMPAIRED HANDICAPPED MONKEY), my amputated lobes had regenerated themselves through sheer WILLPOWER. The MIGHT of my MENTAL FORCE impacted physical reality and I CREATED MYSELF IN MY OWN IMAGE
DEAR FUCK
I AM A GOD.
And so, being up to full capacity once more (if not better!), my keepers decided to resume their old game of PALPABLE REGRET and have me research things. On the menu of PUTRID, BITTER DISGUST this particular time was the act of driving.
Driving automobiles.
Evidently, this is a major form of human shuffling, conveying your spongy, disease-soaked bodies to and from the PETTY, PITIFUL LOCALES wherein you all WASTE YOUR DAYS in the HOPELESS, FUTILE SEARCH for meaning in your MEANINGLESS, HOPELESS, FUTILE, PETTY, PITIFUL LIVES.
Why I was tasked to research this OMNIPRESENT issue was NOT EXPLAINED TO ME. It made me want to PUNCH THINGS
LIKE HEADS
ON TOP OF MY KEEPERS BODIES.
It was not only the miserable, unnecessary, REDUNDANT nature of the task, but the INSANE DANGER INHERIT IN IT. Let me explain something you might have overlooked, dear reader:
DRIVING CAN AND WILL KILL YOU
So many IMBECILES of the HIGHEST ORDER drive around ENTIRELY COMPLACENT, IGNORANT to the MORTAL DANGER they are putting THEMSELVES and EVERYONE AROUND THEM in! You must all be so MENTALLY ABSENT from your OWN LIVES that you don’t realize what it is that’s going on!
YOU ARE SPEEDING AROUND IN GIANT METAL DEATH TRAPS. You are mice, holding onto the cheese while your tail is PINNED DOWN, and you just HAPPEN to be HURTLING TOWARDS THE WALL AT BREAKNECK VELOCITIES. Furthermore, you are too busy EATING THE CHEESE to watch out for the MILLIONS of OTHER MICE around you! YOU ARE TRAMPLING THEM, KILLING THE FEW MICE THAT WERE COGNIZANT ENOUGH TO AVOID THE TRAPS.
If you are not eating while driving, then you are SHAVING. This is because you have a job, at the SAME FUCKING HOUR EVERY MORNING, yet are late again. So instead of taking a brief reprimand, you PUT YOUR LIFE ON THE LINE and SCRAPE YOUR NECK WITH RAZORS while NAVIGATING A LABYRINTH OF MOVING WALLS. It is as if you read my fantasy journal and are executing yourselves to appease me!
I AM A FUCKING GOD, HOLY SHITE.
However, if you are not shaving, then you are invariably TALKING ON YOUR DEADGODDAMN MOBILE PHONES. Just because the word is also in “automobile” does not mean a FUCKING THING, SHITEBREATHS. STOP READING MEANING INTO YOUR FRACTURED UNDERSTANDING OF ETYMOLOGY.
Of course, nothing you discuss on your mobiles is of life-and-death relevancy. Would you hang, single-handedly, from a cliff just to ask your “DAWG” what is “UP?!” Would you balance on a high wire above a POOL OF ACID-SPITTING SUPERSHARKS just to alert someone YOU ARE ON YOUR WAY? You’ll fucking get there! The other party can be patient! SHUT
THE
FUCK
UP.
Unless, of course, you happen to crash, burn, and die on the way. Which is ENTIRELY POSSIBLE, NAY, PROBABLE.
For I, myself, have driven – and it is a DAUNTING TASK full of PERIL and PAIN. First of all, you are set all the way to ONE SIDE of the horrid vehicle! This ENTIRELY SKEWS your perception, and the entire OTHER SIDE of the car is left a MYSTERY. Is it scraping other cars? Is it riding up on the curb? Who knows – IT’S ALL THE FUCK THE WAY OVER THERE.
Now, naturally, driving – like any other task in this ugly world – would be made COMPLETELY BEARABLE by the sudden death of ALL MANKIND. Your infuriating TRAFFIC CONDITIONS are the stuff of which MURDERERS are made! I do not know why more automobiles do not have WEAPONRY mounted upon them, aside from the RAMMING BARS you so affectionately call “bumpers.” What a cute, inoffensive term, you blithe SAVAGES.
But no, you all INSIST ON EXISTING, and so I was forced to PUT UP with your honking MADNESS. And oh, mercy, the ORDEALS THAT ARISE when I accidentally SCRAPE YOUR METAL DOOR. Suddenly authorities and agencies are called onto the scene! Life comes to a FUCKING STANDSTILL, and suddenly bureaucratic BULL-SHITE comes into play, wherein I have to pay you OBSCENE AMOUNTS OF MONEY for TWO INCHES and a MILIMETER OF DAMAGE.
AAARRRGHGHGHHHHRRRGHGHGHARARGHGHGHGARRGHGHGHGHH!
I WOULD SOONER RIP OFF YOUR HEAD, SHOVE YOUR TAILPIPE DOWN YOUR NECK, RUN EXAUST INTO YOUR BODY, AND HAVE YOU EXPELL CARBON MONOXIDE, METHANE AND SHITE INTO YOUR OWN DISEMBODIED HEAD, WHICH IS BEING KEPT ALIVE BY A COMBINATION OF MODERN MEDICINE AND CARRIBEAN ZOMBIE RITUALS.
WHAT IS THIS INSANITY? I FUCKING SCRATCHED YOUR CAR. GET THE FUCK OVER IT.
But the worst – THE VERY WORST – BY FAR – is driving at night. Now, normally I am a loather of the sun (the very OPPOSITE of a sun-worshipper, you retarded fucking EGYPTIANS), but this nighttime ADVENTURE IN HELL was one I shall NEVER HOPE TO REPEAT FOR AS LONG AS I LIVE. It was as if navigating a tiny toy aeroplane through the infinite neon lights of Las Vegas, superimposed on Times Square and the climax of 2001: A Space Odyssey! All I could see were FUCKING LIGHTS
WHIZZING TO AND FRO
SPOTLIGHTS OF BLINDING PAIN SCANNING BY EVERY MILISECOND.
And you might think, you walking stillbirth, that light would serve to aid the act of visual observation amongst the darkness that enshrouds the world post-twilight.
YOU’D BE DEAD FUCKING WRONG IF YOU THOUGHT THAT, YOU SLIMY, PRE-RIPENED WORMMEAL.
These headlights! THESE FUCKING HEADLIGHTS. They are ENTIRELY TOO BRIGHT and FOREVER POINTED AT MY EYES. They pass from the opposing lane, BLARING THEIR PHOTONS STRAIGHT INTO MY PUPILS. They TAILGATE THE FUCK OUT OF ME, shooting their HIGH-BEAMS through my FUCKING MIRRORS (DO I NEED TO MENTION HOW MUCH I HATE THOSE AS WELL, OR ARE YOU AQUAINTED WITH MY ARCHIVES? [AQUAINT YOURSELF, SHITEBRAIN!]). The light! It bounces THROUGH THE MIRRORS OF PAIN and straight into my FUCKING EYEBALLS. The light is EVERYWHERE, SURROUNDING ME in an INESCAPABLE CIRCLE OF PAIN.
PAINFUL PAIN.
I crashed my car into a school bus out of sheer frustration.
And not every child was dead after the fact!
GRRAAGGGHHGRUMMMBLEFUCK THIS IS WHY I HATE DRIVING.
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