Red Assfault Pt. II: excrement in excess of 300 pounds

There was this one time I told you about driving in West Virginia. Well I’m going to do it again and you can’t stop me because I’m a man and I do the things that I want to do.

There are a lot of stereotypes about West Virginia. I am not a person who repeats things like that because I’m a good guy who you’d like to be your friend. So I’m about to earfuck some truth into your brain port:

West Virginia is full of fat people.

They wear camouflage to hide it. It’s like a big game of pretend when people have sex together. Sometimes they even have babies right in the middle of it and people mistake the baby for some of the skin flying off of the woman and then they try to duct tape it back on because it’s pretty strong and they use it to fix stuff on the car so it probably works on that too. Then later they figure out it’s a baby and say “what do babby?” because they’re dumb and fat and talk funny because that’s what WV people are, all of them, not judging at all.

In case you didn’t know this already, it is a proven scientific fact that fat people are inferior when it comes to operating vehicles. The fatter they get is the shorter their arms become. Because of this they have to move their seats way up to be able to steer. When they finally get close enough to steer, the bottom of the steering wheel puts pressure on their barrel chests, thus restricting movement, limiting the amount of air taken in a breath, depriving the brain of oxygen. A very important doctor who is rich and single from Florida can confirm this.

Nader is also very fat so he can tell you about it, too.

Another scientific fact, just servin’ to bring the fat man down, is that they lose more fine motor skill with each pound gained. This is a simple matter of their sausage fingers getting way too big. This means that it is difficult to tie knots, and since West Virginia isn’t a very tech-savvy area, they haven’t yet adopted bungie cords (legislation is pending).

This puts them at a severe disadvantage when it comes to hauling things, a subject of which I am an experienced researcher. An explanation of my experience from yesterday is a prime example:

I am in my car, a luxurious 1999 Pontiac GrandPrix, with fine, stitched cloth seating, blown speaker system and 3.8 liter “low coolant light” engine. I am on a beautiful stretch of four lane mountain toll road. I am listening to my Kid n’ Play compact disc. My day is over and I am happy. The air smells like farts because I had coffee.

I pull into the left lane behind an explorer hauling a large trailer, about the size of another car. At the moment, I don’t notice that this situation looks curiously like one I’ve been in and written about before.

I’m much too busy thinking about this awful dream I had last night where I had a knife. I kept trying to cut cheese with the knife but I couldn’t do it. Every time I tried to cut the cheese I’d miss and the wall would explode. Here I am using this knife trying to cut this cheese and it turns out all it’s good for is destroying my apartment. I could see a man in the parking lot laughing at me. He had a ball cap on that said DICE, but I digress.

I am ecstatic and jamrocking the guts of my car to "2 hype" (http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=rp8QmidCcsk&feature=related).

A truck enters the left lane and proceeds to ride my bumper, presumably because he wanted to get funky fresh to my blasting compact disc player. Over the phat beats emitting from my crackling, broken speakers I hear a faint sound that turns my puckering starfish to ice. I stop Crip walking my accelerator and turn my gaze just in time to see a shower of sparks consume the hood of my vehickle. 30 feet ahead of me a truck-sized trailer has jumped the hitch attached to the vehicle hauling it. It is decelerating quickly, probably a result of friction, but I have no time for science.

Looking at the giant grill in the rear view mirror (the only part of the truck behind now visible) and turning to the rogue trailer from hell spewing unfastened items out from itself in front of me, I quickly hatch a plan.

First, I shit all over myself. Next, I cry. Last, I make a desperate split-second attempt to call my mother to let her know during the last moments of my life how much my dog means to me and that he shall receive my worldly possessions and also for her not to forget her cosigner obligation to pay off my school loans.

Just when I am about to chew on trailer’s ass parts the chain catches. Ironically, though forgetting to secure anything in the trailer or even the trailer itself, the driver in front of me did remember to chain the trailer to the frame. The trailer slides wildly around in front of me, mere feet away. So I do the only thing I can when surrounded by a jersey barrier, a butt-humping Ford F1fuckyoudickheadhitthegoddamnbrakesalready and a wall of right lane 5pm Friday traffic: Nothing.

In the face of death, I didn’t actively do a goddamn thing, friends. I succumbed to the will and speed of the trailer. It made me think about my life, all those things that Kyle Phillips told me about God needing money and being god’s designated moneyholder…

I’ve had an epiphany, brothers:

I forgot to turn off the faucet in the kitchen when I left in the morning.