So, you would think that if you have a bumper sticker that says God is My Pilot, I’m Only the Co-Pilot, you’d be a better freaking driver. Seriously, cause I’m clueless as to why God was having such a tough time navigating a Dodge Neon through a football field sized opening to the right of the car turning into traffic. On a side note, I’m surprised the bumper sticker wasn’t on a Christ-ler with a Jesus bobblehead hood ornament, and I wonder if you could get away with drinking in the car, being that you’re not actually doing any of the real work.
Perky people tread a fine line between being a ray of sunshine brightening up a gloomy day, and being someone that makes you want to patiently wait while your fingernails grow long enough to live inside people’s dreams on Elm Street, even going so far as to take prenatal vitamins to assist in the nail growth, before using your new finger-cutlery to work your way through the flesh covering the belly and shredding the insides while grabbing hold of the intestines, ripping them out, eating them, then purging yourself in order to throw up the intestines so the last thing little miss or mister perky pants sees before they go to heaven is their intestines in a puddle on the pavement mixed with Sangria and Chalupa meat being slurped up by the Taco Bell Chihuahua for a morbid Cinco de Mayo tie in they’d never forget and would have to respect if they were still alive.
I’m sure there’s better ways to deal with those Perky people that reside in the land of the murderously annoying, but that was the first thing that came to mind.