Tuesday, December 29, 2009

Keep on trucking with the poll

Come on you fux, start voting, there are only 58 days left to finalize how your daily commute makes you feel!

I bet your daily commute could be a lot worse. You could be a man/woman on the move, with no set commute, just a traveling salesman selling your snake oil to the unsuspecting disaronno addicts. Make a nickel how you can, then say goodbye, promise to write, and throw on a pair of shades so that the same old town doesn't see the misty buildup in your eye. It could be that every time you bid your adieu, you feel like a decrepit, forgotten low-budget recording of a sad sad song.

I bet in a few years, if you try to settle down on the road, your commute could get very exciting. Become a trucker, so that you bring your home with you, wherever you go. Who needs a house when you have a good hammock in the back of trailer? All you need is the good hammock in the back of the trailer for good your lady, a gas station that sells 5 hour energy (or the good stuff if it were pre-1970). You power through, because no one can stop you, and your blood courses thicker than a mere mortal. Your veins may be popping out of your neck, but who gives a shit, because they are filled with blue gold (and your arteries red gold, and you know that because in Sassafras Falls there was a pharmacist that explained the difference to you). And you don't care that your truck is on fire, going 90mph the wrong way down a one-way street, because you are powering through on the night train:

And then you're all grown up. It's the 1980s, and you are flying high, both pharmacologically and financially, and you don't give a shit because you don't commute; people commute to you. And then you meet someone special that you care about. You woo her. And then all of a sudden something bad goes down, not with her, but with farmacological phinance. You have to put down your White Horse on the rocks with a chaser of white horse, you roll up the sleeves to your silk azure armani, and you say fuck this; it's time to pull out the shotgun and put a hole in someone's chest. You consigliere, a meathead named Biff from Fort Lauderdale, drives up in a mustang, top down, and you head to the office. And then things don't go too well. You sit back down in the car, while Biff speeds away, and your lap slowly accumulates a puddle of blood. Biff screeches around corners, fuck youing and shtting at every corner, and you are silent, and the hourglass of fate pours blood from your once blue veins (and red arteries) into Biff's mustang. It's then that you wonder. Who's going to drive you home tonight? Where is home?

In conclusion, I bet your commute could be worse.

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