Back From Idaho

Tired, exausted, pooped, wiped out. Would you like to know when I can tell that I'm back in the Seattle area? It's when I see all the cars with the drivers seats raised as high as they can go. Why are they raised up, you ask? It's because the divers here HAVE THEIR HEADS UP THEIR ASSES and they need the seat raised in order to drive! Of course, actually LOOKING at the road seems to be a secondary concern for these non-driving dunderheads, since they spend more time on their cell phones than actually LOOKING AT THE DAMN ROAD. And they obviously slept through any kind of drivers education class, since none of them seem to know that the FAR LEFT LANE IS FOR PASSING, NOT FOR DRIVING AT A SPEED SOMEWHAT SLOWER THAN A GLACIER.

Maybe if I had a labotomy coupled with a crippling addiction to Valium I would approach the levels of crapitude that these idiotic asswipes have attained behind the wheel, but that's a "maybe". Crack-smoking chimps have better driving skills than these worthless oxygen thieves. You don't just go for a drive here, you do battle on the interstate. And it's a good thing that I don't have a huge truck, otherwise I would have just pushed these morons off the road, where they would pose a danger only to themselves. As it is, I'm about to weld railroad spikes to my brushguard in an attempt to get these fuckwits to stay AT LEAST FIVE FEET AWAY FROM ME. I need to get "Q" from the Bond movies to hook up my truck. I have fantasies about sending out an oil slick and watching the tailgating assholes skid to their firey deaths as they plunge off the road and down the 200 foot cliff. If I could reinforce my rear bumper, I would brake-check these thumb-sucking twits. But I can't afford to have my truck out of commission, even if I do get to beat the hell out of the slimy bumblefuck after he rear-ends me. Here's a clue, people. It's called the two second rule - You should be following at least two seconds behind the car in front of you. Short of the lead car hitting an invisible wall and coming to a complete stop in the road, two seconds gives you enough time to react if anything happens on the road. When you're so close on my tail that I can't see the headlights in your grill, THAT IS NOT TWO FUCKING SECONDS!

GAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAH! Scotch.... I have scotch.... sweet scotch, make the bad men go away!

I so need to get out of this shithole disguised as a city. My bloodpressure jumps 20 points every time I have to return. This festering sore on America needs to be bulldozed flat, burned to cinders, bulldozed again, and then have a MOAB dropped on it for good measure to make sure that nothing gets out alive. This isn't a city, it's a fucking huge virus sucking the life out of Washington State. It needs to be sterilized, and while we're at it let's take out Olympia as well. Two parasites with one nuke. It sure as hell sounds like a good idea to me. Plans are in the works to get me out of this town, and when I leave I'm going to stop at the city limits and take a huge stinking shit on Seattle land, just to show my true feelings. And I'll eat shitloads of peppers and other spicy food the night before so that I can let all my aggression out. Was that a bad choice of words? Too bad, I don't even care right now. Seattle does that to me. If I didn't have my ten acres in Idaho I'd go batshit. As it is I can plan for the future and remember that I have a happier life ahead of me out of this g-d forsaken hellhole.

That's it, I'm hitting the scotch. I'll see you all tomorrow.