You almost hit me with your car as you were pulling into the Fred Meyer parking lot. So I slapped the shit out of your car, just to let you know I was there since, you know, you obviously didn't see me. Screeching to a halt, you and your bearded, angry, tuxedo shirted self jumped out of the car and proceeded to tell my "bitchass" not to "lay hands" on your car. First of all, I was not trying to heal your car or convert it to Christ as your choice of words would imply. But that aside, what did you and your big muscles hope to accomplish that your car did not? Be big and intimidating and almost hurt someone?
But you asked me if I understood if my bitchass shouldn't lay hands on your car. I said I understood. Then you got back into your car and bought more tuxedo shirts or protein powder or whatever. But the funny thing is, my bitchass did lay hands on your car. And your bitchass didn't do anything about it. So thank you for teaching me a lesson. I'll be carrying a hammer (for your taillight) and bear mace (for your facehead) the next time you decide to disrespect a pedestrian's right of way. And I'll teach your misogynist, corny, macho bullyass a lesson.
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