And the DMV said unto thee, be free. You good, dawg.
Wouldn’t it be nice if we were together?
It would be nice. But, I got my Clean Air Vehicle Sticker (aka single-occupant carpool lane sticker). I’m free. Muahaha. So long, peasants.
I saved 40% off my commute time today, and all it cost me was my friends. For the first time, I leapt out of bed and skipped to my driver’s seat. I unplugged my car from the wall socket and was a smiling fool the entire 24 mile drive to work.
The freedom to drive in the carpool lane, regardless of passenger count, is a godsend. My radio blared. My farts flew free. I shoveled boogers out of my nose and didn’t worry about offending anyone other than the gas-guzzling commoners I was blurring past in the carpool lane.
Finally, blessings befall good people. All my years of being the most humble person in the world are paying off. People are starting to recognize that I deserve to be better than all of you.
I promise thy sticker will not be used in vain. The time I save will go towards taking everything else I can until my wealth trickles down to you. May my pockets grow so fat that some spare change may sprinkle toward your general vicinity. The money I’ve paid to be alone in the fast lane will help put me first in line at grabbing everything I want, so the rest of you may be free to compete and work hard at splitting the stuff I don’t. ‘Tis the American way.
Many have sacrificed to give us freedom to be idiots. Despite all of our daily complaints, our lives are still better due to the lives that came before us.
May we all appreciate the day’s bootleg fireworks.
And another more NSFW…
After messaging a hot girl for the first time, I think, “Oh my fuck… What have I done?”
Initiating contact with someone you like is the most nerve-racking experience. Back in the day, I’d ask a girl for her number and then always reached out by actual phone call first. Friends advised that using your voice was the best way to demonstrate interest and confidence to a girl. It never worked for me. Attractive girls don’t answer their phones. They just let calls go straight to their weird Spanish voicemails, or some kind of odd high-frequency electronic hissing noise.
Whenever someone did answer the phone, they’d tell me that I called the wrong number. Why do hot girls have so much trouble remembering their phone number? They must not be very smart. I guess it could be an honest mistake though. I’d bet she was too drunk to enter the number correctly in my phone. I must have gotten a lot of drunk phone numbers. I should stop hitting on girls at the supermarket.
Calling first is clearly not the best move. I’ve learned to text. It’s less intrusive and gives her a longer timeframe to respond. The problem is, what do you write? A text message implies that you’ve had time to think about what you’re going to say. And, I don’t know what I should say. I asked for her digits because I liked the way she smashed her boobs together. It’s not like I know her.
Immediately after I send the first message, I swim in regret. The more I’m attracted to her, the more moronic my message. I typically send:
“Hey, it’s John Kim from itsjohnkim.com. I offered to buy you an Apple Martini at the frozen foods aisle last night. Remember? Were you on your period, or do you just really like ice cream? I like ice cream too. We have so much in common. I really liked your yoga pants and thought we had a connection. While we were talking, I felt all tingly in my pants and hoped to get to know you better. Anyways, what are you doing right now? Want to come over to my place? I’ll cook us dinner. I swear it won’t be frozen pizza. haHAHAhAhaha. But seriously, yes? My mom won’t be home for a couple hours.”
The only response I ever get is “Message not sent. Too many characters.”
Let’s learn some etiquette.
Sure, I’ll drive. Hop in. Don’t slam my door.
Let’s learn some basic passenger etiquette:
1. Don’t slam my door. For fuck’s sake, don’t slam my fucking door. Stop calling upon your inner Samson. It really doesn’t take much force. Nudge the door and let it close itself. Stop slamming my door like you’re trying to flip my car onto its side. Jesus.
2. Don’t touch that dial. The radio, air conditioner, my nipples…anything in the car with a knob…you no touch. Have you noticed how all of the controls are centralized closer to the driver’s seat? It’s because they’re mine. I control. You listen to my music, at my volume. If you want me to hear the mindless jabber out your yapper, speak louder. Scream. Don’t touch me knobs.
3. The trash is yours. I am appalled at the large quantity of passengers that “forget” their trash in my car. Put the receipt in your pocket…not my cup holder. Hold onto your Cactus Cooler…don’t put it in my cup holder. Eat your god damn candy wrapper…don’t shove it into my god damn cup holder. The moment you step out of my car, the stuff you leave behind becomes garbage. Have some respect and stop acting like I’m driving your own personal garbage truck. My car’s cup holder ain’t your trash bin for ants.
4. Get your dirty fucking shoes off my dash. Cross your legs. Get comfortable. But keep your $2 chucks away from the dash of my car. Would you appreciate it if I stood on your pillow with my shoes on? Would you be okay if I pressed your face onto used urinal cakes? Take those filthy, public bathroom stepping soles off my car’s forehead.
5. Stop singing. Are you Anna Kendrick? No? Then stop singing along to “Hey, Ma” on the radio. If I ain’t driving you to help me break-in a mattress, I don’t care to hear your singing voice.
6. Don’t vomit.
I LOVE Artgerm.
Artgerm is my favorite digital artist. His real name is Stanley Lau. He creates the most beautiful comic-style digital paintings.
What I love about Artgerm’s work is the expression crafted in each and every illustrated female face. He captures innocence, seduction, and playfulness with amazing execution. Most importantly, he manages to perfectly articulate confidence in his female characters.
A confident woman is the epitome of attractiveness. I love a woman who’s comfortable. I’m awkward enough as it is. A strong woman who does not need me to stand by her side as a crutch is fucking scrumptious.
It’s easy to fall in love with Stanley “Artgerm” Lau’s work. Sometimes, all it takes is a smile.