As someone who lives in an apartment in central Auckland, I usually find myself late on friday and saturday nights asking the following question:
Why must there be fuckwits?
Who thinks that the busy, sometimes crowded, lots-of-traffic-lights-having central Auckland streets are the IDEAL FUCKING PLACE to hold an impromptu race in your riced up car that you’ve spent $30K on, that is worth $5K in resale value?
Who gets drunk and starts a fight with a stranger? Okay, it was mildly hilarious because you both had those fucking fauxhawk haircuts that look like female pubic hair and were both wearing shirts with popped collars. I could almost smell the slathered on Old Spice from three stories up. But despite the lulz, really, don’t be those guys. Ever.
Who thinks that parking ones car under the windows of dozens, possibly hundreds of apartments, holding the car horn down, and yelling for “David” to come to the window because “The intercom is broken so Dave isn’t answering” is going to get you anything except abuse from many many people? The intercom works fine. Dave is what we would describe as “not the fuck home”. Also, it’s 2008 and cellphones cost $5. Seriously, Buy One or just pick a discarded one up off the street and fucking learn Daves number – if you repeat this stunt, I will drop heavy things on you and your vehicle.