I am Hondaboy, Hear me Poot!!

Anybody out there care to help me out with these nitwits?

There’s certainly a lot of them out there.

Surely, somebody will be able to explain these twerps to me.

Or then again, maybe not.

Young males, generally dark-haired oftentimes with some kind of gelled spike deal going, small of build most times, and almost never muscly. Pencil-neck little fucks for the most part. The kind of people you could snap in half like a twig if you took a notion to do so. Tattoos, silver chain of some sort hanging around the neck, and clothing that says, “My mommy gives me more money than your mommy gives you.”

The car speaks well to the issue of a mummy and dummy with more money than sense, too. In fact, this is what it says the loudest. Unless perhaps there’s a dark undercurrent going on here. It IS possible that mummy and dummy have decided to get junior his toy car in the hopes of wiping the obnoxious little dipshit out. The way junior invariably drives the damned thing, this would not be entirely out of the question. And, should junior manage to avoid running his little plaything up underneath the wheels of a cement truck, at least he’s out of the house and mummy and dummy are getting some well-deserved peace and quiet. Yeah, mummy and dummy might not be so stupid after all.

But it’s not parental intelligence we’re talking about right now, is it?

No it is not.

What we’re talking about right now is some little snot rifling up through rush hour traffic behind you, doing forty miles per hour over the posted speed limit, and thus thirty miles per hour faster than yourself, and getting to within half a car length of you before hitting the brakes and avoiding a rear end collision with you by roughly the width of the McDonalds burger box that he just threw out the window onto the roadway.

You find yourself thinking, “Wipe your fucking feet before you come in back there, would you?”


And then he (Oftentimes them, Hondaboy likes to bring along all his little adolescent buddies so he can impress them with his driving “skills.”) rides along back there in your rear view mirror, with everything but the roofline of his precious little gofast car hidden beneath the trunkline of your own vehicle, attempting to prod you into exceeding the speed limit enough to force open a space between yourself and the traffic beside you that will allow him to zip around you with tissue-thin clearance and immediately zoom forward seventeen feet and repeat the process with the next guy.

Hondaboy sneers at you as he whips past, looking derisively at your functional transportation as if it was an oxcart.

Hondaboy is CONSUMED with a vehicular slant on life and anything that fails to live up to his laughably distorted expectations (Read: Another Hondaboy’s car with a shinier paint job, a bigger muffler sticking up from underneath the rear bumper, or perhaps an obviously more expensive set of wheels.) sends him into a fit of disgust and loathing.

Hondaboy has given up on ever accomplishing ANYTHING on his own merits, and has instead decided that his only chance in life is to have a car that screams “LOOK AT ME” as loudly as possible.

Hondaboy thinks that everybody else is similarly impaired and that all of us are just dying to get a misfunctional, malfunctional, and nonfunctional little toy car just like the one that Hondaboy has.

Hondaboy is REALLY stupid, in case you hadn’t noticed.

If you don’t think that Hondaboy is REALLY stupid, I invite you to check into the details of the next roadside shrine of flowers (Holy shit, but do those things ever creep me out.) that marks the location a pop-quiz physics exam resulting in the sudden termination of yet another pointless life. Often as not, you’ll find that the Dearly Departed was some goof with a high school graduation present who thought that the laws of physics applied to everybody except himself.

Physics never grades on a curve, except maybe when you're going around one doing 85 and your flyweight vehicle abruptly launches itself into uncontrolled flight toward a large tree or other solid object of substantial mass.

Not that you need any more persuading, but if Hondaboy wasn’t stupid, then what the hell is he doing with a.) those hilariously nonfunctional tires with the three inches of sidewall, mounted on three thousand dollar rims that look like they were designed by the shop class in the local middle school, b.) ground clearance that may well be less than the sidewall depth of them frickin’ tires, c.) an exhaust system that makes the fucking car sound like a loud metallic fart, or d.) a stereo system that is GUARANTEED to leave him shopping for hearing aids before his thirty-fifth birthday, should he survive so long?

Hondaboy actually thinks that three inches of ground clearance is going to get him laid.

Can you believe it?

Hondaboy is REALLY stupid, in case you hadn’t noticed.

After all, the sole purpose of the entire ridiculous enterprise is to get laid.

Hondaboy has also given up on attracting a member of the opposite sex with more than three functioning neurons in her head, and instead has determined that he’s going to have to settle for a girl that’s just as stupid as he is.

And so, he’s trolling for some little Tiffany or Brittany with perky little tits, babydoll eyes, and an insatiable desire to be catered to and generally fawned over by horny losers.

Hondaboy thinks that when he finally bags his little Tiffany or Brittany she’s gonna be so impressed with his ridiculous Hondacar that she’s going to be just dying to give Hondaboy the blowjob he’s always wanted.

Hondaboy’s worst nightmare would be if he actually reeled the bitch in. Tiffany or Brittany regards Hondaboy with utmost contempt and will hang around only as long as Hondaboy remains useful. Hondaboy regards Tiffany or Brittany with equal contempt, and will hang around for only as long as the blowjobs continue. It’s a relationship composed of equal parts of contempt, greed, and an endless desire for worthless material objects masked by extravagantly overdone packaging.

By the time she’s done with him, Hondaboy will discover that each blowjob wound up costing $937.46, and they weren’t even particularly well done.

Tiffany or Brittany will use Hondaboy up like a roll of toilet paper and then move on.

But things won’t be any too good for Tiffany or Brittany either. As she moves up the food chain of life, her next stop will be Corvetteman. Corvetteman doesn’t need any money from mummy and dummy. Corvetteman makes the Big Bucks on his own. Corvetteman is a stockbroker, or perhaps a realtor, or some other kind of Republican Loser with more money than sense.

Corvetteman's sense of self-entitlement is the equal to Tiffany or Brittany's, and the two of them will endlessly connive, lie to, and cheat on each other in an ever-descending spiral of dysfunction and sociopathy.

As it turns out, Hondaboy is the larval form of Corvetteman, and when Hondaboy’s chrysalis splits open, it’s Corvetteman who emerges in a new pair of wingtips.

Hondaboy/Corvetteman then gets to repeat the whole cycle with another Tiffany or Brittany, but this time they do it with children of their own.

And people wonder why there's so many assholes running around out there.

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