Retarded Adolescent Review: Hondaboy
by James MacLaren
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 muscley.
Thin 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 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 bastard 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 breaks 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. “Wipe your fucking feet before you come in back
there, would you?” Asshole.
And then he (Oftentimes them, Hondaboy likes to impress his adolescent
buddies 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 guy in front of you.
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 warped 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 apparently 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. More on
“look at me” in a bit.
Hondaboy thinks that EVERYBODY else is similarly impaired and that ALL
of us are just DYING to get a set of wheels 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 abrupt
ending of yet another pointless life. Often as not, you’ll find that
the Dearly Departed was some goof with a high school graduation present
that thought that the laws of physics applied to everybody EXCEPT
himself. Often as not, the physics lesson manifested itself in the form
of a gofast Hondacar suddenly rearranged into a modern art sculpture
made from crumpled tin and broken glass.
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 junior high, 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 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 BELIEVES 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 completely 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 (Give up loser, it’s never gonna happen), she’s gonna be so
impressed with his little 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 $287.46, 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 Porcheman.
Porcheman doesn’t need any money from mummy and dummy. Porcheman makes
the Big Bucks on his own. Porcheman is a stockbroker, or perhaps a
realtor, or some other kind of Republican Loser with more money than
sense.
Unfortunately, Hondaboy is the larval form of Porcheman, and when
Hondaboy’s chrysalis splits open, it’s Porcheman who emerges in a new
pair of wingtips.
Hondaboy/Porcheman then gets to repeat the whole cycle with Tiffany or
Brittany, but this time they do it with children of their own.
Lather, rinse, repeat.
