91 Problems

Ay Carlos, I don’ wanna hear ’bout it, comprende? Ass. Or, something.

What I mean is, I’m sitting on the 91 freeway right now. In traffic. Relax man, my sister’s driving. Still can’t myself, right? But/so, I was tryin to read or something but its so incredibly and beautifully summer out that we’ve got the windows down and the tunes up extra loud and my comprehension of a particular sentence didn’t get any better after reading it for the fifth time so… hey. Shut that shit right up. The book, I mean. And now here I am, restless yet content – mind wandering and full of rock n’ roll or whatever occasional brass infused ska tune I’ve been able to finagle her into liking enough to include in her traffic mix. Go me.

Not gonna lie. I’m a little perturbed at this particular moment in that we’ve now caught up to this fucking amazing looking SS Camaro… circa 69, by my guess… that I’ve had my eye on since Savvy Ranch, only there’s something incredibly… wrong.

The thing fucking reeks. I mean – I know how its supposed to smell – was looking forward to it even – but either my olfactory glands have decided to spontaneously combust or I’ve simply been robbed of the true pleasure of classic car exhaust by some asshat who thinks its okay to get a chick’s panties all wet with the outwardly promising body of a well oiled machine while leaving her high and dry under the hood.

There’s a pun there. Yep. *shrugs*

Thing smells like banana farts. Not cool. Sacrilige, even. If you’re gonna own a car like that and do shit like this to me, you better to it right and deliver, sir.

I should reach across and pull this car over right now and revoke dude’s pinks. I think the car would like me more, anyhow.

Guy’s lucky I like this song too much for vehicular justice.

I’m ditching class tonight, by the way. Instructor wanted to video tape us one on one doing a mock elevator pitch and then play each interview back on the big screen for the whole class to critique.

Fuck that nonsence.