How can I make my fin­gers yell at you? Why won’t you lis­ten to my hands? The key­board taps and raps… lit­tle back­ground tippy tippy, not even musi­cal like the type­writer used to be.

WRITING IN ALL CAPITAL LETTERS IS RUDE.

But if that’s true… then how do you scream at strangers? Here, anony­mously… through the Power of The Inter­net. Tonight’s scream is local.

Lis­ten, ass­hole, yes, you — the sumpin-​aged knuckle-​dragging, mouth-​breathing, 4×4 no muf­fler pickup truck dri­ving inbred, Marl­boro smok­ing, Mama kiss­ing, flat­footed tar­diant acne boy who dri­ves down East Main Street and then cuts across Brown to go west on East 2^nd — every f’ing night from around 6:30 p.m. until his sis­ter calls him home to bed around mid­night — GET a GOd­DamM MUFFLER. And fin­ish study­ing for your GED for crap’s sake, you are old enough to drink, now do the respon­si­ble thing and learn how to read.

That’s tonight’s Scream.

I may add to it later, first I’ll drink some of that good old calm­ing tea I bought down to the beach last week. See if that god­dammit chamomile doesn’t kick in them nice­ness hormones…

It’s so unfair.

I gave up cig­a­rettes years ago, I’ve had one beer (a GUINNESS for crap’s sake) in six years, I limit my pie con­sump­tion to ONE pie a WEEK, and I only eat ice cream on days end­ing in “y”. My mother lived here, in our house, for SEVEN years with us all car­ing for her… It is time to Scream at Strangers.

Let the scowl­ing and noise commence.