Picking Up Hitchhikers

Hey, the title doesn’t always have to be effin Wordsworth…while driving home at 3 in the morning in downtown DC, I picked up some hitchhikers. Merrily singing along to my Hawthorne Heights cd (eat shit; I know they suck, but I’m just happy to have a disc recorded in the last decade in my car. The second-newest album in my shaggin wagon is Public Enemy’s It Takes a Nation of Millions to Hold Us Back, for fuck’s sake. God, when did I officially graduate to old fart status? Might as well grow a (bigger) gut, some bitch tits, shove them under a faded Led Zeppelin t-shirt, waddle my fat ass to some emo show and drunkenly scream for Freebird to be played as the 16 year old girls around me memorize my every inch so they can go home later and furiously masturbate to the thought of me by grinding against the teddy bear daddy bought them when they weren’t in possession of tonsils that had been worked like a speed bag by countless glans. Either that or they’ll take one glance at all that is The Papageorgiou and go full-bore dyke right afterward. Who the fuck knows or cares?)

Back to my tale, I was cruising down Wisconsin Ave when, while stopped at a light, I came upon a couple staggering about and making out. For those of you unfamiliar with the details of my commute, it takes me through DC’s Georgetown district, a den of the area’s richest, most-attractive college students and yuppie filth. Every day, twice a day, I drive through this area, simultaneously wishing I could run over them like members of the untouchable caste and twisting my neck so hard to look at every piece of trust-funded tanned tail in a sundress that you’d think I was trying to do a Christopher Reeve impression. My boner is very conflicted by it all, believe you me.

At the light, I enjoyed the show, cackling as I beheld a rather porcine blonde sucking on the face of a cookie-cutter douche bag guy in a designer shirt, nice shoes and jeans that didn’t look like 45 square feet of denim filled with rice pudding (I have haunches that would make Nikki Blonsky exclaim “Damn, that nigga THICK!). Unfortunately, the blonde caught my derisive laughter and mistook it as me reveling in the joy that is young love. Sprinting toward my car with an alacrity that belied her offensive linemen good looks, she knocked on my window and, in a surprisingly feminine voice, asked “Hey, could you give us a ride?” It was 3:15 am and all I had to look forward to was going home (well, to my Mom’s home) and mashing my little cat turd of a prick while trying to keep the volume down so I wouldn’t wake her up. Because there is nothing that says “Dude, just make like the .45 is a snorkel and pull the trigger” more than your mom knocking at the door and asking “What’s going on in there?” while you’re mid-stroke to a Brazilian with an ass like a beach ball get dp’d. And just like that, I found myself telling the drunken duo to hop in.

“But John,” you ask, “isn’t picking up hitchhikers dangerous?” Well, let me just say these two looked safe enough. If you know what I mean. Because the color of their skin rhymed with the word “bite.” I’m not saying I’m prejudiced…just that if I saw Nelson Mandela with Maya Angelou on his arm, both dressed in their Sunday finest, had they even looked at me at that time of the night, I’d have screamed “Take it! Take it all!” thrown a fistful of bills out the window and floored it.

The blonde explained to me that she was from Pittsburgh, where hitchhiking was still common. Pittsburgh made sense to me. Pittsburgh says “America.” As does a blonde with a pretty face who’s 75 lbs overweight with a drunk guy that’s slightly out of her league who she’s hoping will forget the rubber so she can use his dna to forge the 9 month fleshknife she’ll then use to stab him through the heart, wallet and scrotum (Nicholas Sparks ain’t got shit on my understanding of romance). I was to take them in the general vicinity of a hotel that, as luck would have it, used to employ my services of a locksmith, so I knew the way. (I say used to because they recently let me go, which takes a couple of k right out of my pocket. So let me return the favor and give them a plug: the best place I know to go and commit grey rape with fat chicks is the Marriott Wardman Park of Washington, DC. There is so much drunken banging of tubby broads that the entire place smells like a Slim Jim left overnight in a bottle of Beefeater. Enjoy your stay!)

“Uneventful” is the best way to describe the drive, tragically. There was no drunken fight, no performance of fatty felatio (the very best kind of felatio…UNTIL YOU DRAW BACK A STUMP BECAUSE SHE CONFUSED YOUR COCK WITH SOMETHING EDIBLE!), no screaming of racial slurs at those we drove past (well, not by my passengers). I did my best to make conversation in my typical Patrick Bateman/Dexter Morgan socially retarded serial killer just trying to fit in kind of way, and the drunks managed to not evacuate their bladders all over the interior of my 95 k car (that’s right, I drive the only 2007 Focus whose chasis is made of solid diamond). And before you could say “John, you are a conversational retard who will never fuck a woman that you didn’t meet through MySpace,” we had pulled up to the hotel and I was dropping off my soused cargo.

As blondie got out of the car, McDouchenstein, my male passenger, turned to me and asked “Hey, where are the hottest girls in this city going to be partying tomorrow night?” I was taken aback! You mean the love shared by two passengers wouldn’t be a tapestry weaved across eternity? Sweet mother of our crucified savior no! I told him to march back and forth around the Georgetown bars filled with women who wouldn’t see fit to fart on me, and Preppy seemed satisfied with this answer. He shook my hand, tossed me a $20 and marched into the hotel lobby, sow on arm, to meet his destiny. Looking at the money in my palm, I couldn’t help but grin; I felt like a hooker that gave a good bj and didn’t get stabbed afterward. Had my passenger only told me to “spend it on something nice,” my night would have been complete.