I'm referring to the half-assed turn. Drivers who are turning but refuse to occupy the entirety of the turn lane are a douchey menace to society.

You see it in three-lane situations, where the middle lane is reserved for turning onto the opposite street. What I've noticed is drivers will maintain their place in the normal traffic lane for as long as possible, and then shift their vehicle into the turn lane so that at the apex, about a quarter of their vehicle still remains in the normal traffic lane.

This is wrong, and it's dangerous, and it must be stopped.

When you turn, make a decision and follow through all the way. Don't half-ass it, equivocating on the perpendicular motion and leaving your cheese hanging out in the wind. You may think you're being polite to oncoming traffic, but the turn lanes are just as wide and sometimes wider than the normal traffic lane; there is plenty of room for your vehicle to take up the entire width of the turn lane without endangering the oncoming traffic.

Your so-called "careful driving" puts every car behind you in a state of danger at the worst, and a state of intense annoyance at the least. By not fully committing to the turn lane, your car obstructs all traffic behind you, thus impeding normal forward motion and contributing to the National Pissed-Off Driver Index, which is already exacerbated by excessive freeway traffic, poor road conditions, red-light cameras, cops, and cyclists.

The turn lane is a liminal space, and thus presents a psychic obstacle to most red-blooded Americans. We fear the unknown, the spaces between that present a continuum of possibilities. As a nation of car-loving individuals, our choices on the road affect everyone.

It's time to retrain ourselves into full commitment to the turn lane paradigm. We must eliminate vehicular ambivalence and embrace the turn lane without doubt and with full resolution. Otherwise, you're just another douche on the road to freedom.

It's none of my business--at least, it wasn't my business until you broke the rules--what was in your grocery basket. Hell, if it were up to me, you wouldn't be allowed to bring anything through the express lane that has wheels, including strollers by the way. But you forced me to evaluate your twisted purchases when you brazenly walked up to the register under the very clearly marked sign, started shoving your ill-gotten items up to the checkout girl, who looks at you like you're full of shit but she doesn't earn enough per hour to say anything, and then, hell of all hells, you break out your checkbook.

I don't care what kind of day you had. I don't care that you're carrying the same item multiple times. That doesn't count as one purchase. It's not one item. It's still more than one item, you dweeb. I don't care that you're running late and don't want to wait in the regular lane with all the other proles. You are breaking the rules and someone's got to stop it.

Breaking the express lane code is like punching Michael Dukakis in the face. Sure, no one really minds, but is it right? Is it morally acceptable? Fudging the numbers in the grocery store is just as reprehensible as Martha Stewart accepting insider trading, or Barack Obama promising not to tax the middle class and then doing it, or wiping out puffer fish to extract the ten ounces of delicious flesh their bodies offer in exchange for the thrilling possibility of ingesting their highly deadly venom in a $200 plate of fugu.

By violating the sacred covenant of Ten Items or Less, one also might as well throw out the code of Hammurabi, the Ten Commandments, the Constitution, and Seven Habits of Highly Effective People. I mean, that's what you're doing anyway, eliminating the rule of law and replacing it with the selfish rule of assholery. No circumstances dictate the bending of the rule. No exceptions should be meted out. The quid of the express lane should not be overwhelmed by the quo of the people in it. That is, after all, the whole point of the express lane--to avoid the congestion that plagues other, less efficient lanes. Violators, like speeders and coke dealers, should pay the full penalty.

Since there is no penalty, one should be enacted immediately. I suggest the Express Lane checkout machines all be able to hike the grocery tax of the purchases of all who exceed the allotted limit. This ensures that only the wealthy, who don't care about menial taxes, will continue coasting through in oblivious douchebaggery. And since the wealthy only shop at Savenor's, Formaggio's, and Philbrick's, the remaining stores will have a restored sense of order.

In the meantime, until this law is passed, can't you just read the sign and do what it frakking says?

Flexitarians are so-called semi-vegetarians because they have a primarily vegetarian diet, but occasionally eat meat--some kind of diet augmentation. I pretty much only like my augmentation on a woman's chest, or maybe my johnson if it needed it (it doesn't, trust me). You start adding to definitions, and you get anarchy and mayhem. We started out with Jesus on a cross, some people come along and start adding things to it, and BOOM. Two thousand years later you get Mormons, Rupert Murdoch, and now, Flexitarians.

If you look at it from a rigid philosophical standpoint, flexitarians practice the insane and post-modern relativistic ethical quackery of shitting out of both ends.

Now, I am a firm omnivore, and have achieved a level of indifference toward those who choose to eat only plants. I have a number of friends who are vegan, and over the years I have grown to appreciate those who remain firm in their faith and follow through with action that reflects that faith. There's a kind of purity in those who claim a lifestyle that demands asceticism of any kind, even if it is misguided or just flat-out wrong. Like God, I prefer it if a person is boiling hot or freezing cold.

Flexitarianism, like bisexuality, flies in the face of the cherished dogma of what I might call the Robert Frost Postulate, which states that one must choose one road or the other. Taking of both roads not only violates basic quantum physics laws, it also makes you look like a selfish A-hole. A folksonomically-limited diet gives you at least the veneer of respectability. Vegetarians who allow themselves the luxury of meat are nothing more than painted food whores. Maybe we should just call you a bi-vore.

When you really look at food lifestyle choices, it boils down to a few simple choices. But if you call your failed bid for elitism without the work flexitarianism, I'll kick you in the nuts, because that's what you are.

Kay, brahs and chicas. It's time to put an end to this spasmodic bullspit you hipster wackjobs call dancing. It's not enough you look like seizure patients off your Ritalin or whatever, but you're downright dangerous with your spiked hair, your white Marc Ecko glasses that you don't even frakking need, your striped shirt and your trucker hat...gyrating like Mariah just gave you a front row pass to the world Boobie shaking contest, and busting your nuts all over the Parquet with no regard for human decency, safety, or trigonometry.

You dipsters are ruining what could be moderately good fun at a swanky joint. As soon as someone turns up DJ Tiësto you lose all bodily inhibition and motor control and flail about. Even if the music is dope—and nope, it's a joke—it still doesn't give you the right to wutz in five-dimensional space-time. You take up more room than a Busby Berkeley choreography scene if it was invaded by Gestapo officers dressed up as the A Team and turned into an impromptu lesson in how to smoke crack rock through your pooper.

Every time I see one of you tan-skinned circus ringmaster coat-wearing unnecessarily grown-and-ironically-groomed facial hair sporting mincing little fucktards masturbating against some skanky little tube-topper, wiggling your hands around in the air as if you're worshiping some anti-symmetry deity, it makes me want to seriously f*ck your sh*t up.

Or better yet, I'd like to stand up, walk over to your marker-colored Converse All-Stars ass and hand you a card that reads, “Congratulations, you're a douche.”

Get a life, brocephus. Just because you woke up this morning with a Whole Foods hangover after drinking a six-pack of PBR, slumping on top of the pierced-up Goth chick who thinks horn-rimmed glasses makes you have bigger boners, banging until that annoying Arcade Fire singer hits that really high note, then promising to take her to the Tattle Tale Club downtown because you want to let her down easy, doesn't make you God's gift to the dance floor.

In point of fact, you're a total menace. Get lost, douche.