The 4 Jerks Everyone Has to Deal With

I'm what you might call a freelance social worker; I strive to make the world a better place, one bastard at a time. Granted, this usually manifests in slightly erratic ways, like screaming "Get off the phone, idiot!" directly in the ear of the idiot who is talking too loudly on his phone (sorry, idiot!), and then doing it again at the inevitable crime scene that ensues (sorry, officer!). In fact, when I think of it, half the time the misbehaving jerk I'm attempting to rein in is the one in the mirror. That still counts, right?

So, one day it occurred to me: What if I harnessed my barely existent talent for social problem-solving to correct some of the more glaring everyday flaws of humanity? Let's see if we can counter some simple yet persistent dick moves we face daily, brought to us by people like ...

#4. The Entitled Dick

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Let's start sailing the seas of slimebaggery with the most common asshole encounter of our day and age: The Entitled Dick. We see stories about these full-person leaky sphincters on bottom-feeder news sites every day. They are the kids who scream bloody murder when they get a $500 cellphone for Christmas instead of the $550 one, and grow up to be the adults that tell people who help them change a tire to fucking hurry up because they have places to be. It takes a special kind of person to mow down cyclists because they're too busy texting to pay attention to the road, then say they don't give a shit because clearly they're the inconvenienced one, here. The car got scratched and everything! (Perhaps not coincidentally, these people are also pretty much every rich person ever.)

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This picture inexplicably brought to you by the search term "entitlement."

While Entitled Dicks do make excellent comedy fodder, in real life they're so grating that most cheese shops file for restraining orders as soon as they roll into town.

The Solution:

With people like this, it's often better to just ignore them until they wander away in search of more evenly fake-tanned people to annoy. However, should someone feel a slight pang of social justice in their black little heart, I guess an alternate way to take care of this shit would be to acquire every piece of nonlethal weaponry you can. Pile up mace, net guns, fart cannons ...

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... totally nonlethal giant murder robots ...

Only, absolutely don't use any of them on the Entitled Dick. That shit is illegal as all hell, unless you have a pile of qualifications and there are very specific mitigating circumstances, which, let's face it, you don't have and there won't be. Besides, if their entitlement is purely narcissism-based, they already know they're obnoxious but just don't give a shit. If their upbringing is at fault (and in tons of cases, it totally is) , there's no way you can undo that shit with a Taser, no matter how hilarious and satisfying it would be to give it a shot.

However, if you were to drive to the house of the Entitled Dick's parents and scream at them until they promise to think twice about the necessity of that trust fund, is it really your fault if your trunk accidentally pops open and they see the arsenal you could technically have at your disposal if you were a complete sociopath instead of the morally upright concerned citizen you clearly are? If they reply to your reasonable request with mad ramblings such as, "Our kid is just fine," and, "We're calling the police," is it really your fault if that beanbag gun inadvertently goes off and hurls a round you may or may not have accidentally slathered in habanero sauce at Mr. Entitled Dick's dick?

Yes. Yes, it totally is. Still, as the cops drag you away, you can at least take solace in the fact that you've pretty much guaranteed a fairly serious discussion between daddy and the little turd that is the fruit of his temporarily decommissioned loins.

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This picture brought to you by the search term "decommissioned loins."

#3. The Traffic Disaster

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When we sit behind the wheel, our heads immediately become entangled in a truly magnificent web of illusions and brain farts that turn us into Autocious, Dark Lord of the Road. You can blame it on a lot of factors: genes or advanced age or the instinctively territorial "my car must be the best car" attitude that causes road rage, but at the end of the day, the truth is simple: We, as a species, are fuck-awful drivers.

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We're all just one bad day away from becoming this fucking guy.

But before you start stabbing yourself in the eye with a rusty spork for being unfit to rule the roads, remember that most people do, in fact, realize the tiny metal coffin-on-wheels does not make us invincible, and thus behave like a dick only occasionally. Most people. Some totally believe they are the Road King and everyone else is just a faceless dummy creature that should be driving from point A to point B according to their exact expectations, otherwise they're malfunctioning and can freely be ignored and/or put in their place. Regardless of how they go about it -- traveling at a snail's pace to "show 'em all," rabidly honking and flashing their lights, living out their Blues Brothers fantasies at the expense of your Ford Focus -- that person is the Traffic Disaster, and fuck that guy.

The Solution:

There's no real way of communicating with the Traffic Disaster as long as they're on the road. A honk will be perceived as an insult or, at most, an approving nod to one of their "wacky" bumper stickers. Hand gestures and other responses will be viewed as blatant challenges or tiny victories, depending on how many trolls the fucker in question has pissing in his personal gene pool.

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This one has 16!

So wait until they get out of the car.

As the law-abiding citizen that I am, I'm specifically, explicitly not saying you should tail them. However, should you by some strange coincidence (wink, conspiratory gesture, etc.) happen to run by them at some gas station or roadside diner, I'm betting they're much more responsive to your well-informed critique re: how they tailgated seven people in the span of as many miles than they would be if they were still in the cozy leather confines of their Audi.

As an added bonus: If they get cocky, you can just organize some fellow drivers (who have been listening in and are just as mad at the guy as you are by now) and surprise the Traffic Disaster with an impromptu game of Death Race 2000.

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Pauli Poisuo

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