[12:55] Krystal: lol, u ass

[12:55] WeaselBringer: well I was trying to park the other day

[12:56] WeaselBringer: and I saw those gleaming empty handicapped spots sitting there begging for a cripple to slovenly drive into them and hit the safety raised curb

[12:56] WeaselBringer: and I realized that I don’t just want to park, I hate cripples

[12:56] WeaselBringer: I started thinking, which cripples need the parking?

[12:56] WeaselBringer: if they’re driving?

[12:56] WeaselBringer: if someone else is driving they can drop them off (on the side of the freeway)

[12:57] Krystal: lol

[12:57] WeaselBringer: if they’re driving then they’re FINE!! they don’t want the special treatment

[12:57] WeaselBringer: they’re fucking driving!

[12:57] WeaselBringer: they need spots that are HARDER to park in

[12:57] WeaselBringer: so that they know we’re not taking it easy on them

[12:57] WeaselBringer: spots that change shape, or that barely fit a volkswagon

[12:57] WeaselBringer: spots that run halfway up a wall

[12:57] WeaselBringer: or are at the very back of the parking lot and halfway into traffic

[12:58] WeaselBringer: Are retards driving?

[12:58] WeaselBringer: are people driving with no legs?

[12:58] WeaselBringer: I don’t want these people parked close to my multimillion dollar hotel

[12:59] Krystal: is this a new crothchmail coming

[12:59] WeaselBringer: because let’s face it, unless stephen hawking and the california hardbodies are booking up for a drunken scientific fuck fest – there’s not much money in cutting out the guy in a mercedes for the pinto driven by ‘lefty the amusingly disabled school janitor’

[12:59] WeaselBringer: no I’m just ranting

[13:00] Krystal: lol, it should b a crotchmail. it’s funny

[13:02] WeaselBringer: will do, right after I systematiclly spray over every handicapped logo in the parking lot outside my work with the words “Parking on ROOF” you fucking pansies, hobble your crutched ass up there to renew your handicap sticker so you can attach it to your spine when you spiral off the guardrail to a grisly face removal 20 stories down and people will park on your recently deceased ass who have a chance to walk in and make some fucking money for america you LEECHES

[13:05] WeaselBringer: Hey honey there’s a spot right here by the door, we won’t be late for our dinner date after- AWWW it’s fucking handicapped, I guess hop’along cassidy and his legless wonder band of freakin’ brothers have to park here to wail and slobber their way into our dinner party where we wouldn’t invite them anyway because they won’t get the jokes we all make about the crippled economy because of selfserving bluestickered assholes parking IN FRONT OF EVERYONE ELSE LIKE A PACK OF SCHOOLYARD BULLY FAGGOTS

[13:06] Krystal: lol, u r seriously demented

[13:06] WeaselBringer: I realize that now

[13:06] Krystal: good

[13:06] WeaselBringer: Oh jesus please forgive me… (but not the cripples they’re sinners)

SUP YALL? I GOTS BRAIN PROBLEMS YO. Sup yall? I’m a driving asshole! You may have heard of me, or better yet heard me driving through your neighborhood at 3:32 AM, blasting my rap / hip hop / R&B music as loud as physics can possibly allow before causing the universe to collapse upon itself. I love rap music so much that I’m pushing really hard for Congress to pass a law requiring rap music to be the official music of driving assholes everywhere.

It’s basically an unspoken requisite anyway, all my driving asshole friends have the latest copy of $tab Dawgz’ latest release, "Big Money Phat Bass Disaster," where $tab Dawg details his overwhelming desire for considerably large female rear ends through the universal language of pulsating 60 hertz sine waves capable of recreating the Tacoma-Narrows disaster. Rap music is my favorite, but I can’t help but wonder how much better it would be if all vocals, music, and percussive instruments in the tracks were replaced with 808 kick drums. And I’m not talking about the drum machine, I mean that literally – eight-hundred and eight kick drums.

I absolutely love cruising aimlessly around your neighborhood in the early hours of every morning, my windows down and subwoofers cranked all the way up on some sort of volume control called “The Richter Scale” that I think Sony made up to sell idiots like me graphic equalizers manufactured from radioactive space debris. I don’t care if it’s the middle of winter and my scrawny, hairless white arms are freezing off from the sub-zero temperatures flowing through my open windows and the “sun roof” created last summer when my grandma tried to beat me to death with an umbrella in the back seat. I think of myself as an artist, suffering for his art, and my medium is spraying high compressed streams of muddy, miserable, cliched crap all over suburban neighborhoods to increase the public awareness of this underground phenomenon called “rap music.”

I’m not really going anywhere or accomplishing anything, I’m just taking it easy and blasting my stereo because I feel my CD collection of Compaq-burned mixes is so awesome that it must be shared with the entire population of the globe, preferably all at once. Did you hear that one song I was playing 29 miles away? The one about guns and bitches? Yeah, that’s my favorite too. Man, I love guns and bitches. Rap music and hip hop really speaks to me because, as a middle class white male, I too have felt the scorn and discrimination of racism. Why, just last week I tried to play some dude on Madden 2006 and he said something about my connection being too slow to play him. I’m like Rosa Parks and those idiots on Xbox Live won’t let me drive John Madden’s bus.

By the way, all those stop signs in your neighborhood are stupid so I’m going to ignore them. So are those yield signs and the crosswalks. Traffic signals are meaningless to me, just like social skills and a decent work resume. Slowing down is for pussies, and I only slow down for pussy if you catch my drift! Ha ha ha, no but seriously I can’t see shit under the dashboard here, which hip hop videos have taught me is “cool.” I’ve bent the laws of space and time to drop my seat down so low that every time I go over a speed bump I get gravel thrown so far up my ass that I routinely cough out asphalt. I crammed my seat far to the rear that I must tape prosthetic arms to the ends of my real arms just to reach my moronic, fuzzy steering wheel. I’m so monumentally cool that I’ll pull up beside you at a traffic signal and just stare at you constantly until the light turns green, my eyes penetrating your soul, your very essence, to reach inside, grab your entire fiber of mortality, pull it up to my face and ask your opinion regarding guns and bitches.

My car wasn’t designed to obey traffic laws, can’t you see that spoiler on the back? Yeah, that’s right, I got me a spoiler on my 1984 Toyota Corona. Since I spent all my cash working at Famous Footwear on the spoiler itself, I didn’t really have any money left over to pay somebody with a majority of their original teeth to install it, so that’s why it’s adhered to my trunk with a combination of railroad spikes and electrical tape. I’m not too proud of my handiwork there, which is why I installed a bunch of neon lights under my car’s body to distract people from looking at the spoiler installation. Man, I got like 5000 watts of lights down there. I got so many neon lights under my car that it looks like a bankrupt Shaper Image store somehow flew out of its foundation and grew wheels.

All the better to buy groceries with, my dear.But maybe that’s not me. No, perhaps it isn’t. I think I’m the short blonde woman driving her husband’s brand new white Hummer. Yeah, I think that’s me. I love the powerful, intoxicating feeling that I get knowing I could systematically drive over and kill every single member of your family without dropping below 60 miles an hour. My husband bought me this powerful machine because that’s his way of telling the entire neighborhood that he’s not really prematurely balding.

I can’t wait to see what he buys me when his penis stops working and he’s unable to get erections without the use of support beams and industrial adhesives. I bet it will be a Russian fighter jet. One with a spiked plow on the front that can travel through time and crush you before you have a chance to drive your puny car next to mine on the highway.

See all these stickers on the back of my SUV? That’s my identity right there, my DNA plastered below a thin layer of dust and bird shit. See that white oval with the letters “IRE” on it? Yeah, that’s right, IRELAND. I LOVE IRELAND. I’m not from there, and I’ve never really visited it, but I hear it’s really pretty. Also I think one of my ancestors came from there, he had one of those hats with the buckle on it and he ate hay. That’s what they do in Ireland, right? Or is that Italy? I want to visit Italy one day, I think it’s the prettiest city in all of Australia.

Check out my collection of magnetic ribbons. I got this one here for supporting some crippled disease. I saw this lady asking for donations to fight some disease and I was all like, “disease? Oh that sounds horrible! I hate diseases!” so I wrote her a check for $20. I hope that’s enough to get rid of all disease because I don’t want to be sick this Christmas when my husband and I take separate vacations to our separate houses on separate tropical islands whose names I can’t remember because I can’t read them without making a funny, scrunched up face. The donation lady gave me a red and white ribbon that says I hate disease and that’s, like, so true. I should’ve written her a check for $1,000 because then I could’ve plastered my H3 with like 40 of those things. I love the colors red and white. They remind me of… red and white things. Like something which is red. And white. Together.

This magnetic ribbon here shows I support our soldiers in Iraq. God bless them and may they hunt down that Ben Lauden guy at whatever the cost. I hope those guys know I bought a ribbon for them, I think my purchase will turn the tides of this war. This pink ribbon is for breast cancer awareness. I’m officially aware there is breast cancer.

This yellow ribbon is for… ummm… I don’t know, I think it supports trying to find a cure for Lance Armstrong maybe. My green ribbon shows I care about the rainforests because green is the color of grass and the rainforests are just packed with that stuff. I bought this purple ribbon because it went with my eyeliner at the time. I don’t remember what this white one is for, maybe it supports the fight against ghosts or ice storms or something.

You’ll see my ribbons when I cut you off and continue driving according to the laws of my own little world, one where nobody exists except me and my personal awareness radius can be measured in millimeters. It’s not that I don’t see you, it’s that you take a much lower priority than my cell phone or in-dash DVD player or XML radio or navigation system or lipstick I’m trying to put on or open heart surgery I’m trying to perform on my pet dog Chreschen which I learned from watching that one “Friends” episode where the toaster oven exploded and shot a metal coil into Phoebe’s chest cavity which Ross had to remove in time for her real estate training seminar.

I like watching reality TV. It validates my hollow, shallow existence by parading the failure and embarrassment of total strangers for me to mock. I may despise my entire pointless existence and subconsciously know my complete personality is based on a series of flimsy cardboard cutouts decorated with gaudy spray paint and fake jewelry, but – hahahaha – at least I’m not that fat guy on TV who lives in the dirty house! Hahaha, poor people! What will they think of next! I’m watching tonight’s episode of “Recorded Public Failure” on my television receiver built into the steering wheel. If you yank the wheel really fast to the left, everything turns bright blue for a second! Hee hee, driving is fun!

I’m the driving asshole. If you want to, you can wave to me; I’m in the lane to your right, the lane to your left, and both behind and in front of your car. I probably won’t notice you or care, but you’ll be easier to sideswipe and drive off the road when I suddenly decide to lurch into your lane for no logical reason. I can’t help it, I’m a driving asshole!

The year was 1985, and Journey were the undisputed champions of rock ‘n roll. Briggs’ Rock Career was reaching it’s peak and he had just finished palying his 2000th live concert.

One starstruck lad stood in front of the stage, waiting patiently for a second encore. Some say the boy waited there for an entire year until Briggs visited again in 86, and during the first song he died of a heart attack on the same exact spot.

The groupies tore at the tassels on Briggs’s colorful vest, and pleaded with him to take them away and make sweet love for them in his hidden cloud fortress. Briggs cared not for the temptations for the mortal flesh. It’s not like he was gay or anything, but his divine essence was simply beyond such primal human instincts. The rest of the band swooped in on the crestfallen girls, who, although disappointed that Briggs had ignored them, were willing to accept their lot of giving hand jobs to the bass player.

He longed to be a normal person who could forget himself and wallow in ignorance like the rest of the swine. But this was not his path. Briggs’s coming to this planet was preordained by the prophets of old. His majestic voice had the power to cure cancer in little children, or to cause a class 5 hurricane to hit a major metropolitan area. It is this rebirth and destruction that keeps the balance and saves the universe from tottering over the brink of destruction.

Briggs transformed into a pelican and started the long flight back to his home in Pittsburgh. Just then, his emergency beeper — used only in the most dire of circumstances — went off. The call was from the President of the World.

Briggs transformed back into his “human form” and fell to the earth with a loud crash that woke up the whole state of Nebraska. He then found a pay phone and called the President of the World to see what was wrong.

“Thank God you called, Briggs,” cried the flustered President. “We are in big trouble.”

“What seems to be the problem?” Briggs calmly asked.

“The fishermen in Alaska, they are having no luck! Their nets are devoid of bounty; no fish are to be had. This will destroy the world economy and lead to turmoil in every city.”

I’ll see what I can do, responded Briggs, as he turned into a nimbostratus cloud and gently floated north towards Alaska without waiting for the Presidents response. When he arrived above the sleepy Alaskan fishing port, he could see that trouble was afoot. There was no bustling of boats or unloading of fish. A single sailor glumly played solitaire on the dock while smoking a pipe. Briggs approached the solitary man to question him.

When he arrived above the sleepy Alaskan fishing port, he could see that trouble was afoot. There was no bustling of boats or unloading of fish. A single sailor glumly played solitaire on the dock while smoking a pipe. Briggs approached the solitary man to question him.

The old sailor was naturally distrustful of strangers, especially ones with long hair and the ability to transform into clouds. He tried to flee, but Briggs’s fingers grew 10 feet long and he captured the man in his oversized hands. A rigorous interrogation followed, revealing little other than what Briggs already knew. The fish were simply vanishing, and money along with them. Something bad was going on in the ocean, but nobody was sure what.

After leaning all the sailor had to tell him, Briggs crushed him in his large fist and tossed the broken corpse into the waves. He had no time for a proper burial.

Briggs dove headfirst into the freezing sea, turning into stone to hurry his descent to the bottom. To solve this mystery, he knew he had to go deep where all the evil things dwelled. The last time he had to make a journey into the ocean, he had battled a giant squid and lost an arm in the ordeal. Of course, the arm grew back in due time, but he was forced to wear a fake arm on stage, leading to many embarrassing accidents during live shows. It was not an experience he wanted to relive.

In the gloomy darkness, Briggs spied a dull glow behind one of the rocky bluffs of the seabed. After swimming over the rise, he came across a vast underwater kingdom full of brisk activity. Mermen and mermaids toiled in seaweed fields, and manta-rays pulled wagons filled with clams into the castle for inspection and sorting. Sea horses frolicked in the algae grove, having just gotten out from underwater Bible school.

Briggs, using his flawless deductive logic, came to the conclusion that these underwater folk were the root cause of the disturbance. They were the only intelligent life forms down here, and must be up to some sort of skullduggery. He turned into a class-C attack submarine and dove into the hive of marine activity, firing his torpedoes as he went.

The explosive warheads detonated, causing a whole group of seaweed farmers to vaporize on the spot. Nearby seahorses exploded into chunks of fleshy membrane. The citizens of the mermaid village gathered up their children and fled the carnage as the towers of the friendly underwater kingdom collapsed around them. Briggs launched a torpedo into a nursery, blowing it to Davy Jones’ Locker. The entire village below was razed in a cataclysm of destruction, a doomsday that the mer-elders predicted long in advance on account of the rampant underage egg spawning that was taking place among all the mer-teenagers. None were spared.

“Mission Accomplished” read the banner hung across the Alaskan fishing dock as Briggs returned victorious. The fishermen cheered and gave him offerings of squid and whiskey. The evil in the sea had been vanquished, and now all would be well in the fishing industry. The men hopped on their boats and made for the fishing grounds, eager to make up for lost time.

Eventually the boats did return, but the fishermen were in no mood for fun and frivolity. Their nets had remained empty, with no fish were in sight. The mystery of the sea had not been solved after all. The angry mob of fishermen grabbed harpoons and oars, ready to do battle with the handsome rock star who had given them false hopes. Briggs was not one to be defeated by such a common lot of humans, however, and he used his laser eye power to shoot the wooden dock, causing it to burst into flames and scatter the unruly mob. He then dove back into the ocean to see if he could right this wrong.

Briggs returned to the ruins of the underwater kingdom, scouring the remains for any sign of life. There he spotted a badly burnt starfish, trying to crawl into some coral and die in peace. Under interrogation, the starfish told Briggs all he knew of the missing fish.

Apparently, the underwater kingdom was one of peace and prosperity, but had befallen the same ill luck as the surface fishermen. They knew that a great evil lurked in the shark caves beyond the reef, and it was thought by the elders that whatever was hiding there was causing the fish disturbances. They had sent out three crab scouts in the last week, but none had returned. With this last sentence, the starfish died in Briggs’s hands. He wept over the poor soul, and swam towards the shark caves, determined to avenge his death and finally crack the case.

True to their name, the shark caves were full of man-eating sharks. The sharks, however, sensed something strange about Briggs and kept a safe distance. The sea caverns went on for many miles, gently sloping upward and finally ascending into an open air cave somewhere on the Alaskan coastline. There he saw a terrible sight.

There were various water pits around the cave full of thrashing fish, the same ones missing from the Alaska ocean. Their combined strength was spinning gears set atop each pit, which was connected to a system of pulleys controlling a large printing press in the middle of the cave. With each revolution of the gears, a new t-shirt was printed and dropped into a shipping box under the press. Briggs walked up to the box and took out one of the shirts. It was as he feared. The shirt bore the likeness of Ronnie James Dio, the Satanic rock star of darkness.

“Look out!” screamed Ronnie James Dio as he jumped out from a hidden recess in the wall and threw a trident at Briggs. He deftly dodged the incoming weapon and shot a power beam from his fist. The impact caused Dio to crash into the press, destroying the complicated pulley system that took him so long to rig up with the help of his brother-in-law. Dio became furious and shot a fireball at Briggs, who was caught off guard and didn’t have time to put his force field up. His clothes caught ablaze, forcing him to jump into one of the holding ponds. Dio took this opportunity to finish him off, turning into a red dragon and tearing at Briggs with his razor sharp claws.

As he felt the darkness take him to the land of noble spirits, Briggs remembered what his Native American grandfather used to tell him as a child. He would say, “Briggs, if you ever feel yourself overwhelmed by the dark, remember that some things can never be put out. When you are lost in the dark, make a rainbow and ride it into the light. Find the rainbow in the dark.”

He recalled these wise words as Dio closed in for the finishing blow. Briggs turned into a pure rainbow, illuminating the dark cave in a wash of radiance. He arced into the Dio dragon, piercing his scaly hide and going right into his black heart. Ronnie James Dio let out an earthshaking howl, shrinking back into his human form. He scowled, grabbed his box of concert t-shirts, and vanished back into the ninth plane of Hell.

Briggs set all the fish in the holding pen free. They were eternally thankful for his help, and the king of fish gave Briggs the keys to the underwater kingdom — which, unbeknownst to him, had been destroyed the day before. Briggs then returned to the surface to let all of the fishermen know that their plight was at an end. Most had drowned after the dock burnt, or had their ships been set ablaze in the resulting fires, but the survivors were thankful and cowered before the powerful presence of Briggs.

Later on, The President of the World presented the Medal of Honor to Briggs and gave him a big manly hug. All was well in the world again.

Two years later Briggs would leave earth to follow his dream as a puppeteer, and save the earth from an invasion force sent from Jupiters moons. But that, my friends, is another story