The Little Comment Game Gets Out of Hand...

My friends and I often engage in diversions to alleviate the monotony of the bourgeois lifestyle.

Sometimes, we enjoy texting JPEG images of our bowel movements to each other without warning. 

Often, we surreptitiously flavor our one buddy’s drinking water with Xanax and put his passed out body in compromising positions.

Occasionally, we find ourselves immersed in polemic debates over the Federal Reserve’s choice to pursue quantitative easing.

But mostly it’s the sending doody-and-lacing drinks-type stuff.

One amusement that has provided us with joyous moments is the “Little Comment” game.

It’s quite simple.

The goal is to utter the most absurd thing you can to a civilian while avoiding detection. 

It's best done quickly and under your breath.

Por ejempio:

We arrive at a toll both in my car. I hand the unsuspecting toll collector a fistful of dollar bills.

Toll Collector: Out of six, your change is fifty cents.

Me: Thank you. I wanna smear shit on your mom’s tits?

Toll Collector: Huh?

We speed away, cackling all the while.

It’s a fleeting moment in their pitiful little lives, but I relish in it.

Here’s another:

I walk into the elevator of a nightclub, where a large doorman presses a button, transporting us to the rooftop venue.

Doorman: Alright, y’all have a good night

Me: You too… with that big fat cock of yours’

I pat him on the shoulder and briskly exit. The target should be left in a daze of confusion. 

Or most likely, he won’t even notice.

But who cares, shit is hilarious.

Until it’s not.

My pack of miscreants and I were driving through Queens to get some authentic, delicious Thai food.  Most people go to Queens to pick up Sour Diesel, but me, I’ll stick to the Phat Khi Mao. Whatever.

Anyway, I was looking for the restaurant (ethnic neighborhoods are like, confusing, yo) and a fellow motorist did not appreciate the novelty of a slow moving Range Rover in her hood, so she began to honk violently. 

I put on my hazards, but she kept honking.

Not little honks, either. Long ones like that sound like a wide receiver climaxing. (?)

Like any good douchebag, I slowed down ever more, while alternating my directional blinker light to the beat of song on the radio. I believe it was “We No Speak Americano”. Oh summer...

She then pulled to the left of me, lowered her window, and began to yell.

As the fat Latino woman’s jowls flapped and her giant hoop earrings dangled, I became incensed. I couldn’t even hear her barking at me because the thought of the perfect reply was too loud in my head.

Here was my chance.

I slowly lowered my window and took a deep breath.

“I have a gun.”

“OH YEA? WELL PULL IT OUT, MOTHERFUCKA!”

My adversary began to reach for her glove box.

From what I recall, I drove through two stop signs and a red light while simultaneously shitting my pants to avoid getting shot in the face by a zaftig Spanish lady.

I looked in my rear view and saw her silently screaming at me.

Even her little kid wasn’t fucking around, he seemed to be cursing me out from the backseat.

My friends were disgusted and I was mortified at my own actions.

When I got to the restaurant, I ate some Pad Thai with a side of shame.

Moral of the story, The Little Comment Game is great, but you should probably avoid guntalk with disenfranchised minorities.