This here is for the old lady who lives below me. She has two cars - one of which she never fucking

drives. It's an old, bronzed-up Cadillac that I tried to buy off of her and she said "when I get the

battery jumped, I'll knock on yr door". I don't even want the car anymore, but I'd sure as fuck like the

parking space. It's prime real estate. Bitch - I'm gonna have that car REMOVED by the weeks end.

CAN YOU HEAR ME NOW!? I bet she ate the keys to the beast. As a side note, one day we were talking on the stoop about random

biznass and she started passing gas - like bubbly, liquidized go'n change-yr-britches gas. Like I didn't

notice - she was all about "um, excuse me for just a moment". Was I there when she returned? No,

mother. Move your old fucking car or I'm gonna hold a breakdancing contest from 1985 on the

windshield of that bitch. She goes camping alot, too. I hope she was home tonight. "MARY

ANNE!!!!!!!!!!!" Yeah - this isn't a story.. . this is my band name. Non-fiction. Dot com. Yeah - I hate on

people sometimes, but not just for a rise in the ol' trousers. I want that space. Anyone can be a bitch -

it ain't just a wo_man thing. Bitches have two cars, and waste areas of my life. Cease and decide, exist

and exit! Lead, follow or MOVE YOUR GODDAMN'd WASTEBUCKET! This is the eye of the tiger through

the skull of a boy - workin' my way to your stoop, poop'umpants.