So I’m walking home from my girlfriend’s place tonight, just before midnight, when a ways up the road I clock some dude with a bicycle.
Now, I don’t know about YOU, but I make a point of not making eye contact with people I see in the street at such a late hour…
Well, as I got closer I hear this: “Oi oi oi!…” (I ignore this.)
Then I hear: “OOOIIIII!!!” (You really have to imagine all of this said in the most retarded sounding voice you could ever have the misfortune of hearing.)
I look up with a gaze of what I hope is a representative mix of extreme hatred and loathing, and hear the immortal question, “Y’have a sig-uh-raaat?” (This is accompanied by a hand motion imitating the use of said sig-uh-raaat. Like I wouldn’t have a clue what a sig-uh-raaat IS. What a dick.)
In what I hope was my most hatefully dismissive tone, I say, “I don’t.” The fuckhole looked away before he even heard my answer, which leads me to believe that maybe my eyes actually glowed red when I looked at him. Didn’t even get a “Thanks, mate!” or anything.
As I ponder this encounter, I think: I’m already paying the taxes which allow you, dear fuckhole, to hang around on the streets at midnight with your equally despicable friends, safe in the knowledge that you don’t have to do anything ridiculous like actually have a job and maybe contribute to society in some small fashion, and you’re asking me for a sig-uh-raaat?? I wouldn’t give you a sig-uh-raaat if I DID have one.
But then it dawns on me. I’m looking at this with completely the wrong attitude…
I should do this town, and the world, a service. I should start carrying sig-uh-raaats around with me, so when these wastes of sperm and egg ask for one, I can cheerily say, “Here you go, my friend, smoke up! Smoke like the wind! Fill your lungs with that sweet tar and nicotine! Die as soon as you can, mate!”
The Nobel Fucking Peace Prize is mine.