driving miss potty mouth

the following conversation took place in my car last saturday night, from approximately 11:21 to 11:36 pm.



me: go fuck yourself.
google maps: nice lana. and how exactly do you propose that i set about fucking myself? i am but a mere computer program, unable to think for myself, let alone determine the most appropriate way to carry out said self-fucking.
me: better yet, how about a giant fist-fuck up the ass, from an elephant?
gm: now i think you're just being bitter.
me: bitter? call it that if you want, but i still think that you need to get shoved in a plastic bag full of your own shit and be forced to eat your own shit as you suffocate on the smell of your own shit.
gm: i don't make shit.
me: yes you do! it was your shit-filled nonsense that got me in trouble today. you're only still alive because i had the foresight to leave myself extra time before my shift started.
gm: hey, it's your responsibility to get to your job site, not mine.
me: not yours?! your name is google maps! you exist solely so that you can make sure i get to my desired location. it would appear that this whole business of making up imaginary roads and giving them real sounding names isn't working out so well.
gm: that road wasn't imaginary.
me: and the next time that i have to drive around in the woods of greenwich, i think i'd prefer not to get out of my car and flag down the one passing motorist for miles around, in a torrential downpour, by waving my arms like a desperate lunatic.
me: and fuckyouverymuch that 'road' was a driveway, asshole.
gm: i never told you to get out of your car. that was all you, lana.
me: well it's not exactly like there's a corner store in between all the enormous manor houses where i could stop and ask a local to point me in the way of a non-imaginary road. even the trees here seemed to conspire to keep me from infiltrating the hidden lair that is conyers farm polo club.
gm: that's great!
me: huh?
gm: well, if the trees had a hand in things then it's not entirely my fault!
me: go fuck yourself, again.
gm: hey, how about getting yourself one of those car things that tells you where to go?
me: are you talking about a gps? see, you're so full of shit that you even suggest your competition can do your job better than you. listen up, fuckface, i'm only going to say this once, i work in foodservice. it's not a glamorous job by any means, and it certainly doesn't pay enough for me to afford luxuries like a gps when your dumb ass is supposed to work, for free.
gm: i bet everyone here in greenwich has a gps.
me: i bet they do, cuntwad. this place drips money. the smell of old, old wealth hangs in the air thicker than your shit-stink. the wide, whitewashed gates guarding every driveway part only for jaguars and bentleys. my lumbering, five year old 4-runner got more than a few dirty looks from the elitist lion heads on each stone pillar we passed.
gm: i don't know what else to say, lana. you seem intent upon blaming me for your troubles instead of just moving past this little hiccup.
me: then don't say anything at all. let's drive all the way home in silence. you can use the time to think about your colossal fuck-up and how you're going to make it up to me.
gm: fine.
me: fine.

me: oooh, saturday night eighties on the radio! as an additional torture for you i'm going to sing as loud as i possibly can. karmakarmakarmakarma-chamee-li-on, red gold and gree-eeen, mmmhhhmmmuuumm!!


that's right google, karma's a bitch. watch your back.