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2006-05-04 @ 12:56 a.m.
smoking is bad for you.

Dear Lady Sitting in front of Subway Flicking your Still Lit Cigarettes Under my Car:
Hey, you know what? Cars have gas in them. Gas is a combustible material (ask any terrorist). Yes dear, I realize how busy you were yakking on your cell phone to somebody really important. Who was it now? Vogue? What’s that? They wanted you for your next cover? Oh. Go on. Not the slack-jawed Crackwhore flicking cigarettes under cars in front of Subway. Surely you jest, although I did hear that crackhead whores are going to be the New Black in Fall 2006. Crackhead Chic. I can see it now. You walking the runway. You throwing your cigarette at some fashion critic from the Village Voice down in the front row, hoping of course, that she’s wearing something flammable. You know, kinda like my car....the one with the large metal box of volcanic fluid stuff underneath.

But of course there was that tiniest bit of information that I knew, that you didn’t, bee-yotch. Like the fact that my car gas tank has a hole in it. Oh yeah. The Year of Living Dangerously. A movie with Mel Gibson? I think not. That’s wittykitty driving in her car on any given day. A weeping gas tank on four bald tires. But what was really fun was getting to watch Crackhead Suzy flick her still-lit ciggies closer and closer to the weapon of nascar destruction (i.e., my car) from the window of Subway.

Of course nothing could compare to the expression on your face when I finally walked out of Subway and vigorously smashed out TWO still smoldering cigarettes butts UNDER my car with my sandals. It wasn’t an easy task, especially getting my foot way the fuck under the Ford Tempo of Boom Doom. And for a moment I felt like one of those suicide bombers just seconds before they take out a whole “busy shopping area in Jerusalum” as the newscasters always like to put it.

Lit cigarettes. Good. Hole in gas tank. Great. Potential for heavy casualties...PRICELESS.

So yeah, Suzy Crackhead. You. The one with one cranial lobe tied behind your back. Yeah. Do ya mind? I don’t come over to your vehicle with a rocket launcher or flame throwers or grenades and just randomly aim them at your car, do I? So like WTF? Why are you looking at me like I’m a whack job? I only asked you very politely not to throw your lit cigarettes under a car with a gas tank, bitch. And then you get all attitudey, like I just kicked your favorite Crack dealer in the balls Nana. Like, what’s with the attitude? Sure, I did eventually tell you that my gas tank had a leak. But did you understand the gravity of the statement? Did you?? Obviously not, because you then leaned into your cell phone and said, “Some woman is yelling at me about smoking, wait a minute....”

Ok, First of all ME yelling? You’ve got to be kidding. You could run over my foot with a car and I wouldn’t say anything. You want some yelling, dumbass? Well, you’re gonna hear it tonight in my diaryland diary, I tell ya. Because I’m like way too scared evolved to talk to Crackwhores in front of Subway. Oh yeah. Crackwhores talking to Vogue about their next cover shoot while flicking their still lit ciggies under my 1993 gas-leaking piece of crap.

And secondly, who’s busting your chops about smoking? I’m talking about the moment you launched your ciggie mid-air, let it jut downwards and then let it roll guessed it, the LEAD NEWS STORY ON THE SIX O’CLOCK FUCKING NEWS, dumbass. Oh sure, I could talk to you about smoking, because, sure I do have a few strong opinions on the subject, but I was merely distracted by the fact that while I was thoughtfully sitting in the front window at Subway, eating a meatball sandwich, there you were flipping your ciggie in such a way which surely would have taken out Subway, the Dollar Store, not to mention much of Route 11, but yeah, sure, smoking too, is bad for you, especially when its your DNA being scraped out of large blast hole in the strip mall where you just were eating a freakin’ meatball sandwich before your art class.

Naturally your cell phone friend must have laughed, because once I made my v.i.p (Very Important Proclamation, i.e., Do Not Throw your Still Lit Cigarette Under My Vehicle with a Leaking Gas Tank), you sort of sneered at me, as if to say, "Wow, I’m really important, why is this lady talking to me is such a grave manner...." Because just as I started to walk towards the Dollar Store, after having extinguished the nearly engaged fuse to the Doomsday Fuselage of Terror (where is Tom Cruise when you actually need him?), you laughed at me. Yeah. Laughed. Like large gaping holes of scorched earth are funny, Crackwhore. And they sure AIN’T gonna put your shrapnel filled fugly corpse on the cover of Vogue now, bitch.

Did I do anything? No. Absolutely not! To be honest I haven’t paid my car insurance yet this month and if we’re going to blow up the Ford Tempo of Doom on purpose by accident, we’ve got to at least wait until my payment clears the bank, right Crackwhore Suzy? Right awittykitty. wink. wink.

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Lyrics by Lennon/McCartney. All angst copyright by awittykitty