So the other day I pull up to the gym in my '91 Honda Civic. Once the engine stops convulsing (somewhere between three and six minutes after removing the key) I go inside.

The music stops and everyone stares at me, so I get somewhat annoyed and yell "Hey DJ! Crank that shit! Step By Step is my favorite New Kids song, yo!". Joey Mcintyre's sweet, sweet melodies thumped with every step I took.

So I get on the benchpress and load it up about 35 pounds to warm-up and start doing reps. (Note: 35 too heavy....downgraded to 20 pounds to stop my arms and back from snapping.) All of a sudden, the lights dim and a disco ball comes down and a bunch of women of disreputable conduct start grinding on my jock and I get pissed. (Who the hell knows if lady-grind will remove the Buzz Lightyear character embel from my underpants or not. FUCK! Don't these bitches know you only get three pairs in a pack?!?!?)

Where was I? Right.....I GET PISSED!! I slam down all 20 pounds of weight, push the gals out of my way (ripping my Spongebob shit in the process....fuck my mum is gonna be mad at me come wash day!) and punch a locker, completely destroying my hand. I try not to think of my ruined hand and the countless hours I will no doubt be spending in my room pondering the other uses for a huge tub of Vasoline. There go my Friday night plans; thanks a lot bitches!

I run to my Civic pissed as all heck, put on my perscription sunglasses clip, light a cigarette (slim 100s, gangstas!) and blast some hardcore classic Bananarama tunes. Once the Civic's engine stops smoking and making that funny "BERRRR-RAPP!" sound I crank it to almost 1000 RPMs, drop the clutch and start doing doughnuts (alright....eating doughnuts; those ladies made me quite upset and I tend to eat when I'm upset) while this old lady screams and throws a pair of "generously used" panties at me. She had a telephone number written on it, but upon further inspection of the underpants I realized it was probably written by her homecare worker. Something about "if found wandering the streets please call"....but the number was unreadable due to some very peculiar staining.  Then, I peel the fuck off toward home...making sure my seatbelt was fastened and all my mirrors were aligned, mind you. Elaborate exit or not, there's no excuse for not be safety concious on the road.

Just wanted to share this story with you fags so you know how humble I am and people try to piss me off like you losers.

I can do all the burnouts I want... so long as I'm seated safely at home playing Burnout on my sweeeeeeet PS2.

Kyle 22: you are an upstanding individual who I would like to invite over to my mum's place one Sunday night for a decent home-cooked meal. Maybe (if you're bad-ass enough, bruh!) we can hit up some motherfuckin' charades with my mum and her boyfriend before heading out to catch a motherfuckin' flick at the Cineplex, y'all. I hear UP is still playing and shit.

Snip a snap of snow....whatever the fuck that was suppose to mean.

Cheers,

-The Big Bad