The kind that makes one understand how a couple thousand guys really jump into boats and head off to Troy for a decade or so of misery over one woman. I secretly hate Greg, in case you haven’t figured it out. He doesn’t rank with Disney and I certainly don’t have grounds for this dislike. I just really want to fuck his wife and will probably never come to terms with the fact that he gets to. Strolling through the park with four beautiful girls, I almost forgot my burning hatred for all things mouse. However, a leopard cannot change his spots and I found my ire rearing its head often. The groups seemed to humor me until I snuck up behind Donald Duck and removed his headpiece. With dozens of screaming kids instantly coming to the realization that Donald was, in actuality, a twenty-year-old kid with bad acne, I best a hasty retreat, dumping the head into the nearest bathroom stall. I returned not to the adulation I so richly deserved but mean comments from most of the group telling me. ‘Thanks. I’ll see you soon.’ He leaned over to kiss my cheek. He had never done that before. This was strange. It’s not a big deal, I thought to myself as I merged with the traffic on Interstate 40, heading east. The morning sun was suddenly in my eyes. I reached down to the glove compartment and pulled out a greasy pair of oversized sunglasses. Don really had bad taste. When the traffic thinned, I spotted a silver Buick of some sort in my rear mirror. I sped up, and then slowed down, the Buick followed. God, who drove a Buick anymore? Didn’t General Motors stop making them ugly cars? Or was that the Hummer they stopped making? I floored the pedal to pass an eighteen wheeler, shooting the needle to ninety. The Buick effortlessly kept pace. It was only a foot away from my bumper. I resisted the urge to slam the breaks. The Corolla was no match for any car, even the Buick. I blinked and tried to concentrate. The dotted lines dividing the lanes blurred and merged into a single.
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