Frickin' bench full of frickin' freaks. Why can't the bus just get here when the schedule says it will. Now I have to sit on this bench, the only normal one around, with these two nutjobs in their jeans and t-shirts. What the hell. Why can't they just blend in? Noooooooo, though...some people just have to stick out and be all "Hey! Look at me! Look how different and original I am!" They need to be locked in a cage at the zoo marked "DO NOT FEED and definitely DO NOT MATE." Seriously.
Why? I'll bet they have hippie-freak names, too. Like Andy. Or Bob. I'm sure they came from those dysfunctional homes, too, where everyone ate dinner together and they had a family room with a frickin' sofa and TV. Damn freaks. Freaks and their Golden Retrievers and peanut butter and jelly with the crusts cut off and family vacations to Disney, all posed with that Mickey Mouse asshole.
Frickin' freaks in their frickin' jeans. Where'd you buy those, freak? The freaky mall? Did you eat PIZZA in the FOOD COURT? Did you get a COOKIE?
I hate you both. You two are exactly what's wrong with society. I oughta jab this cigarette in your eyeballs.
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