Editor's Quick Tips, Vol. #8

Today's Topic: Transportation

If you live in one of this nation's one (1) cities with adequate public transportation, fuck you. Cletus and I are stuck out here in the sticks (i.e. a city of 168,293 people), where even traversing a single store requires a 14-mile walk. I used to have feet, but they've been worn down to always-bleeding stumps, due to friction, and to corporate glee. I once received $3 to perform a bandaging of my gangrenous foot-stumps at a Wal-Mart management retreat. I got a standing ovation; I think several of the richest men in attendance shot jizz-loads into their shorts when they saw the blood.

Your car was stolen from you by a judge, who decreed monarchically from his (they're white men by law, judges) platinum-bidet-throne that your sole mode of transportation shall be skating upon your own feces. This decree is particularly frustrating to hobos, because judge-feces covers literally every surface on this Earth.

Need to get somewhere in order to make a living? Tough titty. Starve to death, please. Your life is a severe inconvenience to the cracker-ass, shit-slurping, dog-fucking judges whose whims are the dictums which define whether or not you'll be so hungry as to start eating your own flesh.

Bon appetit!