Yard sales suck.
Just today I had a yard sale. I had been looking forward to it for weeks because the money I would make from selling all my useless crap would fund my purchase of an iPod. I was going to get the touch-screen one, you know? Not one of those piece-of-crap Shufflers. "Ooh, it's the size of a stick of gum!" Get over it. Nobody cares about you or your stupid gum-sized MP3 player. So anyway, as I marked everything up at ridiculously high prices, I laughed like any awesome, rip-off yard salesman would. Finally, the customers started to roll in. About one each hour. None of whom bought
I had books, I had DVDs, I had a PlayStation – even a wicked-awesome BB gun – but did they buy any of it? No, they just trotted along and peeked and then peeled out in their shoddy vehicles. I should have popped their tires. Stupid idiots. I hate people that go to yard sales. Especially those stupid, overweight housewives that "know the game" when they go to a sale. You can always spot one of these pathetic craps zooming over at five-miles-per-hour in their minivans for the yard sale. They ooze out of their van with big ugly sunglasses slapped across their face, with the look of a soldier before a battle. They trot on into the yard and scan the perimeter for miscellaneous objects that no one has any use for; if anything is over 25 cents, the cheap pieces of rubbish waddle back into their Housewife Mobile and drive off. I hate them.
Then there's the Mexicans. They're all the same. There's the father, sporting leather boots and a cowboy hat, the sister with a pink dress, the boy in a suit sucking on a toothpick for no apparent reason, and the fat, stubby mother carrying her cheap purse that she got at the thrift store. "Good morning!” I say politely. Do they respond? Oh no, they're too good to respond. They just lumber on over my property, gibbering in Spanish and laughing at me as I sit pathetically on my stool. "How mudge are duh DVDs?” asks the father swiftly. "Seven dollars" I say. He nods his head, as they all scan the area for a few seconds, and then they all waddle on back to their crowded Civic. Except for Mama, whose eyes have been dazzled by the 25 cent shirt with holes in it. She stares at it for about five seconds, then drags her fat, diabetes-infested behind over to the car where the rest of the family is waiting with Spanish music blaring.
Why must they speak in Spanish everywhere? What are they saying about me? Listen jackass, you're in America. Notice how all the other foreigners here from places like Asia and Europe have adjusted to our national language and speak it? Welcome to America, now
"ooh leroy ur racist lol!" No, I'm not racist. I have no problem with people based on their skin color. I judge by actions. If you act like a jerk, I let you know. The fact is that Mexicans are rude by not speaking English, white people are pretentious snobs that think they know it all, black people are welfare-suckling gangsters, Asians are computer nerds, and Arabs are terrorists. There, did I leave anyone out? You're all jerks. Got a race I didn't mention? E-mail me, I'll stereotype them too. I just hate you all. You stupid, overweight yard sale-goers. The next time anybody goes to a yard sale and doesn't buy at least one of my awesome prizes, I'm going to take that thirty-dollar BB gun and make them buy something.
Got any gripes? Hit me with 'em at:
(I might even hit you back.)