Remember me almost exactly two months ago, to the day?
I was the one whose windshield was the recipient of a pebble fart from a passing snowplow, causing it to crack like a plumber’s fanny and I didn’t have glass coverage on my auto policy? And I wound up adding glass coverage for a measly $9 a year but not before I had to pay out the nose for a brand new windshield, which I did by yanking a snot-covered check for $200 out of my left nostril and handing it over to the filthiest, scuzziest garage in western New York because they wouldn’t take credit cards? The same garage from which I almost contracted emphysema because it stuck its tobacco-infested tongue down my throat and french kissed my esophagus without my permission, five minutes before the rest of me was accosted by not one, not two but three drunkards, all while my fallopian tubes almost froze together?
Any of that ring a bell?
I-390 North is a raging, pebble-strewn, assy douche noodle with a shitty sense of humor. And acid reflux.
Later today, I’ll be having my almost brand new, $200 windshield replaced.
After that, I have my yearly appointment to have my boobs squished flat in an x-ray machine.
Guess which one of these appointments I’ll find immensely more enjoyable?
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