He Drove Like One Too

He was a beautiful asshole

He was a beautiful asshole. Everything he said was funny. Living with him was like listening to some sort of social commentary newscast 24/7 but with real-live cigarettes to set the mood. He never said "hate" or even "don't like" but he'd tell anyone who'd listen (and nobody had a chance since he talked so loud) how much he didn't care for strawberry ice cream or Chesterfield county.

Douglas Adams once wrote that humans have to keep their mouths moving or their brains start working. When he, that is to say, the asshole, stopped talking to me, I knew it wasn't because he had nothing to say. He couldn't say "hate", but he could think it.


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