It Begins...

Well, I know I'm two days late, but starting today I'm going to post at least once a day for the next year (extenuating circumstances not withstanding). I'm not promising it's going to be good, but it's going to be something.

Sure, maybe I'll forget one day, but when I remember, I'll backdate like a motherfucker and make it look like I'm posting on that day. Nobody will ever know. Besides, 80% of my hits are from people searching google images for "guys making out." I wish any part of that was a lie. Why couldn't I be the number one result for "funny blog?" Never mind that I'm not funny. At least it may take people reading a line or two to understand that they're in the wrong place. With the other thing, it's just dudes with boners scrolling down the page as fast as they can to find the picture they so desire. My writing is actually a hindrance to 80% of the people who visit. That is no way to live my life. Now, I'd delete the post that's pulling in all the hits, but, in a weird way, I'm hoping that somebody will find my site looking for guys making out, but stay for the hilarious jokes about burn victims. That wouldn't bother me one bit.

So, I had what can only be described as one of the weirdest experiences ever happen to me. Now, this story doesn't have a satisfying conclusion--it barely has one at all--so I apologize in advance.

The other day I was driving down the freeway stuck in some terrible traffic. I'm in L.A., so I know that this comes with the territory; that doesn't mean I have to like it. I look to my right and I see a car with two Asian guys inside and on the door is written, "Show me your boobs" in what looks like black magic marker. Oh yeah, them being Asian has nothing to do with it; I'm just racist. Actually this whole part really has nothing to do with it. Well, you'll see.

So, I'm driving, kind of, since the traffic is basically stop and go, when this car full of four guys passes me. And, when they pass, they all, in unison, nod their head at me. I don't let them see my reaction. I just kind of look away and think to myself how weird that whole thing just was.

Then I start to feel looks from other drivers on the road. Everybody's looking at me. Maybe these guys made me paranoid, but I know everybody's looking at me, taking pictures, laughing.

At some point I passed the guys, because they come up from behind me again. Keep in mind, this isn't a car full of gay guys. They look like the kinds of guys I hate. They're four guys all wearing hats who were probably on their way to some club or Lake Havasu or to rape a stripper. They're those kinds of guys: 'Bros."

Well, they pass me again, only this time, the guy in the passenger seat is holding a notebook sideways out the window at me and on it, in block letters written with pencil is the single phrase, "Hollah!" As they pass, he makes sure to tilt it so that I know it's intended for me. I'm the one that they are requesting to "Hollah!"

Soon after that car, a truck passes by me and I hear somebody in the truck yell out, "Woooohoooooo!" Now, if not for the previous situation, I'd think nothing of it, but every goddamn person on the road is looking at me. I know they are. Why are they looking at me?

There's something on my car isn't there? Those Asian guys didn't know that they had "Show me your boobs" written on their car, did they? Somebody sneaked around all stealthily and shit in the traffic and wrote on people's cars. What a dick thing to do. Who wrote on my truck and what the hell did they write? I'll just get where I'm going and then I'll look there. But every car that passes is looking at me. I fucking know it. I'm not just being paranoid.

I finally can't take it anymore and I decide to pull my truck over to the side of the road in the midst of all the traffic. I'm going to find out what the hell is wrong with my truck.

I pull over and flip on my hazards. This town's not going to make me look like an idiot. I'm putting an end to these fucking shenanigans right now. I step out and rush to the back of my truck to pull off whatever sticker is on there and...nothing. There is not a goddamn thing on my truck. WHAT THE FUCK? I'm sorry. When I get mad I rhyme.

I checked thoroughly and there is no sign of anything being on my truck. It's just the back of my truck. There's nothing on either side. There is no fucking thing on my truck. Why the hell was everybody on the road looking at me?

I don't think I'll ever know what really went on that day. I can't give credit to the four douche bags in the Nissan Sentra because there is no way that they intended to completely destroy my psyche. Maybe they thought I was a girl they could rape.

Yeah, that was probably it. I'm very rape-y.