Everybody’s doing a brand new dance, yeah
(Come on baby, do the lokomotion)
The Klowns are gonna kill you if you give them a chance, yeah
(Come on Klownies, do the lokomotion)
Your driver’s license came as a cereal box prize
You walk and bicycle like someone gouged out your eyes
So come on, come on, do the lokomotion Klownies
A law needs to be passed.
A law that bans Klowns from owning, operating, touching or even looking too long at any object that has wheels. I’ll extend that to any object that has wheels or an engine of any sort.
There’s a reason why the movie wasn’t called The Fast and the Furious: Seoul Drift.. i can just imagine the screenplay:
(Exterior – Parking Lot: Our main character, Kim Kil Smash, glances around with a vacant, imbecile stare. He pulls an “Esse Slim” cigarette from his pocket – yes, the kind usually associated with 50s-era women – and a mirror from the other pocket. Kim applies some more mascara and eye-liner while simultaneously puffing his girly cigarette and dribble spitting. In short, he looks as cool as a Korean man can possibly look in Klown Kulture. His Urkel-esque, far-too-tight pants hitch halfway up his undeveloped, 12-year-old-girl’s calf as he opens the door of his white Kia K5. As his dainty fingers grip the plastic of his Moshi Maru steering wheel wrap, he tries to flex a non-existent arm muscle – skin quivers against bone. The engine starts with a tinny whine. In the background, a carbon copy K-pop song comes on. Kim opens the door of his K5 one more time to dribble spit on the ground. Throwing his automatic car into reverse, the camera makes a quick cut to see Kim’s bumper dent and scratch the bumpers of both the Ssangyong Korando C beside him and the Hyundai i30 behind him. Plastic smooshes against plastic. Inside the cabin of the K5, proximity warning sensors blare and are summarily ignored. Slamming the K5 into “D”, Kim peels out of the parking lot and onto the highway where he immediately loses control despite bone-dry conditions, slides across 5 lanes of traffic, into a concrete barrier, rolling his car over. As the car continues to roll over the edge of the highway and down a cliff, the camera moves to the cabin of the K5 once more. Small objects such as tubes of BB Cream, cards advertising escorts, baby-sized condoms, oversized brand name sunglasses, sparkle lip gloss and monistat fly around as if weightless. The camera cuts to a close up of Kim’s confused, moronic expression. The camera cuts back as the car explodes into a ball of flame. Ejected from the car is one purple, leopard print Adidas Originals sneaker, size 7. The camera holds on a shot of the sneaker smoking on the trash-strewn highway…) ((Roll credits))
How can an ethnic group that has spawned world champion sharpshooters and archers be so utterly, completely fucking clueless when it comes to any sort of movement by any means in any 3-dimensional space?
I mean holy fucking sacred cow shit! You can solve complex math problems using x,y,z graphs but can’t push a fucking shopping cart in a fucking straight line… forget parking your fucking car, I’m talking one goddamned foot in front of the other.
I am quite literally amazed that gyms here have treadmills. I would have thought that the concept of conveyor belt locomotion would prove so difficult, so impossible for the Klown CNS that bodies would have been flying willy-nilly through the air – an arm knocking out the ajumma on the thigh machine, a leg nearly decapitating the old man doing odd “exercises” with the pink dumbbells.
Hey Klown, unless you long to be Japanese (we all know you do), walk on the fucking right! Do it you fucking mouth-breather!
Hey Klown, the entire fucking world is not your fucking parking lot you narcissistic, hypocritical, self-fellating fucktwat. Move your fucking Costco cart to the side of the fucking aisle before I lift it over my head and use it to bash your fucking brains into a gooey, kimchi-stink mess all over the fucking floor where the brats you let run screaming and taekwondo-ing through every fucking public space can fly down the aisle like it was a fucking Slip-n-Slide.
Hey Klown! Park your car like it wasn’t your first time driving so I don’t need to smash the window, hotwire your shitty fucking Klown Kar and use it to drive over you just to keep you off the roads where you will one day kill me.
What’s that Klown? Oh, you like that shiny something in the store window over there, mesmerized by its sparkle and promise of status-uh? Why don’t you move your pig farmer ass to the side of the sidewalk like a normal fucking human being would do to stare at it in amazement rather than pulling up to a dead stop in the middle of this veal sty city?
Hey Klown, I know bicycling is hard to manage, what with the spinny roundy things, so why don’t you stay the fuck home rather than endanger everyone on the narrow path with your stupefying ineptitude?
In an urban center of some 20 million, one would think that the human capacity for adaptation would dictate that people’s skills at moving themselves from Point A to Point K would improve out of simple necessity. But no. Not in Klown. In violation of all common sense and logic, Klowns have gone in the exact opposite direction, instead choosing to showcase how incapable they are of doing anything other than copy. And why? Well because Klown Kulture is a sado-masochistic, passive-aggressive shitshow of human misery (or Han). A place where happiness and human decency go to die… and more than a few motorists as well.