Who rules? Robert Spae rules.

Last Saturday night was typically dominant. Went to Garrett's. Lost a chicken dinner in a poorly played match of Rock Paper Scissors. Got what was most likely a fake number from some broad. Crushed copious amounts of Miller Lite, Jack & Cokes and Jaegermeister. Then there was the cab ride home.

So I was bragging to the cabby about how awesome I was when we pulled up to a red light next to another cab packed with more drunk kids. I was alone and felt now would be a good time to show the cabby what I was talking about. So I looked out my widow at the cab full of young adults and explained to them that, "I have a gun in here, and I'm going to shoot all of you."

I showed them I mean business by pointing both index fingers at them, pretending that my hands actually composed some sort of rifle.

It took the other cab a few seconds to digest my threat, but soon thereafter I found myself being bombarded with a slew of nasty insults. "Hey, where are all your friends, loser." "I don't see your date anywhere, faggot." "You look like an asshole you stupid dick."

As I contemplated how they were able to overcome their fear of being shot up by a gun that I was pretending to have I also stared right at them all with a big, dumb, glazed look on my face until the light turned green. The two cabs drove off in seperate directions without another word from me.

So, as it turned out, I didn't rule at all that night. In fact, I looked like a huge tool.

God damn it.