IF YOU DRIVE A MUSTANG, I PROBABLY HATE YOU.

Now don't you feel stupid.

IT WAS THE EARLY- TO MID-NINETIES WHEN INSECURE PRICKS OF AMERICA WERE AT LONG LAST INTRODUCED TO THEIR CHARIOT. American-built, with none of the rice-in-the-tank feminism of the Japanese fin rides, and all of the little-dick stench. In the greater Los Angeles area that William "oops where'd my cigar go" Clinton presided over, the sleek curves and insistent growl of a then-new Ford Mustang were the last two details to wash over one's senses before some extra-short son of a successful attorney would jump out of the driver's side and start yelling at someone while vaunting himself chest out around the perimeter, MC Eiht foreshadowing the bloody beatdown from stock Kenwoods, and a phalanx of his bandana'ed up "friends" itching to trampoline on some poor kid's corpse in the name of their current sponsor.

But that's not why I hate Mustang owners. I was never that kid, and besides, who doesn't enjoy witnessing a horribly mismatched ass-whipping every now and again. I hate them because they drive like suicide bombers on their way to a Holocaust museum. We've all been there. You're driving down the freeway, playing the game. You have a bowl of chili waiting for you at home and you just want to live. Cars in your rear view mirrors look steady. Then out of nowhere, Bruce fucking Wayne roars an asshair past you as he weaves through the minute gaps between an eighteen-wheeler, a Prelude and your car to cross four lanes at once. They do all this, of course, under the assumption that nobody else on the road hates their life half as much as they do, and therefore won't make any sudden moves that, when paired with their sudden moves, would mean at least two people less who won't have to wonder about whether the new healthcare plan will actually have a public option or not. But all someone has to do at the moment Lil' Napoleon slaloms past is reach for their coffee, or look at their phone, or pick their nose, or - God forbid - forget for even a second that the roads are full of idiot Mustang drivers, and it's gonna be three hours before they haul off that miserable yellow wreck and traffic can get going again. So yeah, fuck at least 90% of Mustang drivers. I'm trying to live over here.

I'm deejaying Saints & Sinners Christmas night! Come through bitches.