There is only one thing to say.
When the world ends, and the time comes for me to kill someone, any one person.
It will be Chris.
I’m sorry, but you drive a Saab. You also own a shell of a Porsche. That means it doesn’t have an engine. It doesn’t drive. You don’t own a Porsche. You own the body of a Porsche.
Everytime you walk into a room, you don’t need to validate yourself by telling us about how you “drifted around this sick corner and almost hit some other car, but it’s all cool.”
People like you are the reason that someone needs to go to Costco, buy an industrial size bottle of Clorox bleach, and pour it into the gene pool.
I would rather slide down a waterslide covered in razorblades, into a pool of rubbing alcohol, than hear you talk about your car ever again. Or how expensive your (not expensive, you bought it at Kohl’s) suit is. I. Don’t. Want. To. Hear. It.
Douchebag.
