A butthole by any other name

With all the driving I do every day, I have a lot of time to come up with half-assed theories. One of the minor ones I discovered early on is that the shortest measurable amount of time on earth is the time between when a traffic light turns green and the puckerhole ass-monkey behind the first person in line lays on his horn.

Yesterday, as I was driving home, this theory was proven once again. This time, there was a humorous twist worthy of note. Granted, sometimes a polite toot of the horn is necessary to defibrillate Grandma, or tell Susie-makeup that the light turned green while she was applying her mascara, but sometimes if you wait .25 seconds, the person in front of you will (and I know this is hard to believe) actually start moving on their own.

So yesterday I'm sitting pole position at a redlight in two lanes of traffic. To my right is a lady in a green Subaru Outback, and behind her is a white van. She was diddling with the radio knobs or something and didn't see the light turn green, so the guy in the van just crushes his horn and holds it in. The lady gets all flustered and floors it, and unbelievably the van guy stays right on her ass. As the van passes me, I glance up to call the guy a name that has not yet formulated in my brain, let alone reached my lips, and I see this logo on the driver's side door:




Pure poetry.