There are some days when you simply want

There are some days when you simply want people to shut the hell up and marinade in the silence. Charcoal, who the hell knows or cares what her real name is, is droaning on about

a snort of laughter beside me and an attempt at a joke: "Bituminous? More like bite-me-inous, am I right?" My lab parter, Gary. Idiot. Who could blame my thoughts of murder when

he made jokes like that throughout the semester and particularly now. Our diels-alder reaction clearly was not proceeding as it should. The beaker was frothing a foamy substance

which turned out to be Miller Hi-Life. It turned science class into a White Trash Pic-Nic. I tied my shirt into a not to accentuate my hairy breasts and started drinking like

my wife's sister (i.e., my other wife). She can pound like 18 Zimas and doesn't even put the Jolly Ranchers in 'em like my ex. I polished my brew and looked at my watch - Oh Snap!

It was time to bounce so I paid the barkeep, stepped outside and climbed the ladder mounted on Big Bessie's door. Bessie is my monster truck you see, 32 foot lift and 100-ft tires

. The nice thing about a Monster Truck is that you can park it just about anywhere. I like the sound of mini-coops when they pop. I turn up the bass so I don't hear the curses of

fairy godmothers when I run over their pumpkin carriages. "You're digging your own grave, Gravedigger," they shout, wands at the ready. But my monster truck has a wandshield and

their technicolor curses merely bounded off of my hipster-shaded glass. With a mighty vroom, I ran the fairy godmothers down with my monster truck, crushing every last one.