Along with going to the mall, driving is one of the best places to experience the best TNB. It affords you opportunities to check out the dumbshit crapwadds without getting too close. And when you live in a city filled with spongeheads like I do, there is no shortage of bountiful hilarity. Anyway, in March I was driving in mild traffic. From EVERYWHERE AND AT ONCE CAME AN UGLY, RIOTOUS NOISE. My first impression was that it was an ambulance. I say this because the sound was just as loud as a siren. But it wasn't a siren. Thoroughly startled I looked in my mirrors, I looked up the street at oncoming traffic; I even looked straight up in to the sky. Was it a flaming, tailless helicopter? Or the Second Coming? The sky wasn't falling. . . . Ahead there were some cars slowing down for a red light. I approached them. I got closer. So did the static terror. Yet I still didn't understand. I wiped the blood from my ears, took a good listen. The ruckus became clearer. Uh huh, now I could hear words: "Clap dat butt dugguh FLOP FLOP FLOP duh PAYPA makesk um mayne!"
CLICK CLICK CLICK CLICK CLICK CLICK went the drum machine.
But why did these turbulent fart blasts appear to be coming from my speakers? The car in front of me was your run-of-the-mill white Chevy Impala niggermobile with (predictability: Why do niggers like shiny things? They're like fish, lured by cheap gaudy objects) oversized chrome rims and taped-on chrome accents. Ah-h-h-h! There we go. The audible puke was coming from a cheap loudspeaker hanging from under the bumper, looking me in the face. It dangled by its cords. Craftsmanship. . . . This was hilarious and I laughed a hearty laugh.
Guess what! I TOOK A PICTURE. Yellowpalms saw me do it, too. I saw he be lookun in he mirrors. Poor fella. He was the joke and I wasn't laughing with him.
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