Ash Wednesday

I was walking home from school yesterday, when yet another worthless metro Atlanta kid approached me in front of Papa John's on Baxter Street.

"Dude, like, your bookbag is open," he proclaimed in his awful, generic, freezer-burn,"Real World," cookie-cutter, strip-mall, Midwestern accent.

Listening to an Atlanta kid talk is like hearing fingernails on a chalkboard. Looking at one is even worse. This guy had bad acne, really long curly hair, and was wearing a "retro" Atlanta Braves net hat (with the lower-case "a") slightly off to the side like black people do, and also had on a faded American Eagle shirt on that said "#4" on the front. It was obvious this kid had never done anything that MTV didn't approve of, and that one single, independent thought had never crossed his mind in his entire life. Either that, or he had no father.

I immediately wanted this kid to go back where he'd come from. Whether it was from the annals of O-House, Joe's Crab Shack, or Akron, Ohio, I didn't care. I just wanted him to leave and pack all of his worthless friends with him into his cargo shorts so they could leave with him.

This year for Lent, I may be giving up tolerance, but I'll keep my personality thank you very much.